


Thrall

by VelvetMace



Series: Vampires, Mates and Thralls [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Study in Pink!Au, Blood Drinking, Bonding, Case Fic, Dub!Con, Fuck Or Die, Long suffering!John, M/M, Meddlesome!Mycroft, Violence, Workaholic!Lestrade, vampire!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetMace/pseuds/VelvetMace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is sober, but his life is still spiraling down hill. Despite this, he has resisted the notion of ever getting a mate. The very idea of having a human balancing his life is abhorrent. As Mycroft, a case, and a new flatmate all vie for his attention, he misses the most important clue of his life: that his mate has found him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Although this is based on A Study in Pink -- things go rather differently in the case because, well, there weren't vampires around in ASiP.

 

 

It began when Sherlock's landlord informed him, politely but firmly, that he had 30 days to vacate. He hadn't bothered to list a reason, so Sherlock went ahead and did it for him: noise past midnight, smells that seeped into the hallways, permanent damage to the counters, and, of course, the altercation with the woman in the flat just beneath.

The man's response was, "I suggest you start flat hunting soon."

Sherlock considered glamouring the idea out of him, but then shrugged. To make it stick he would need to turn the dolt into a largely useless thrall. It wasn't worth it. Sherlock was a vampire with standards. Instead, he began making arrangements.

That afternoon Mycroft paid a call. Sherlock reluctantly let him in. As usual his brother was dressed impeccably and showed no signs of having been anywhere near the natural world. He'd barely touched the soles of his immaculate shoes to the oil stained pavement outside. Sherlock almost missed the days when Mycroft trolled places like Bart's maternity ward for food. Domestic bliss had turned Mycroft positively _dull_.

No wait, cancel that: Mycroft had an air of insufferable smugness about him. Sherlock felt a prickle of suspicion.

"It's too bad," Mycroft said in his usual mild way, gazing about the breezy open loft. "This place was quite stylish. I'll miss it."

Sherlock didn't ask how he knew about the eviction. Giving himself a mental kick for being obtuse, he revised his list of reasons for why it happened down to one. He should have _smelled_ Mycroft's influence. _So what is the game this time, brother?_ he thought.

Out loud he said: "Is that all? You've come to pay last respects to my flat?"

"Actually, I've come to ask you to move back in."

Sherlock did a double take. "Have Lestrade's daughters decided to skip their dreary prepubescent years and go straight to independent living? Or did you finally convince your stubborn mate to let you put them in a boarding school."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Mycroft. "I had a tough enough time convincing Greg to let them go to proper private schools. No, I wasn't suggesting you go back to your old rooms, _my_ daughters still require them. What I meant is that the next flat over has become vacant. You can move in there."

"I see, close enough for after-dinner chats? Or close enough for you to meddle with my experiments."

"You can't keep on destroying flats," said Mycroft, tutting. "And the potential for self-injury is not insubstantial. Especially given your poor diet. Not to mention Lestrade feels you are getting a bit out of control with your use of cadavers. It's all become rather unsanitary and disrespectful of the dead."

"Lestrade's always had a weakness for sentiment, but he doesn't argue with the results. My experiments have caught him criminal after criminal."

Mycroft's eyes drifted downward, almost demurely, as he conceded the point. "Nonetheless you need a place to live, and I have one."

"As happens," said Sherlock with a bright smile. "I already have a flat lined up. Lovely lady, client of mine, has recently bought some property on Baker Street – which is far more convenient to me than your St. James Street one."

"That was quick."

"I've had four hours – ample enough time. And you'll find that she's one of mine, so don't think you can glamour an eviction out of her."

Mycroft suddenly found his nails fascinating. "Ah, very well, you've caught me. Shall we lay our cards on the table? I want you back, Sherlock. This experiment in independent living has to end."

His eyes came up and caught Sherlock's. A moment later Sherlock could feel his brother's will latch onto his own, attempting to bully his thoughts and emotions into alignment.

 _Attempting to glamour me like a human,_ Sherlock thought, caught between shock and disgust. How trite. He wrenched away from the connection. "I'm not strung out, those methods won't work on me anymore."

Mycroft relaxed. "You can't blame me for trying."

"And why are you trying?" Sherlock asked. "Have you grown bored with Lestrade? Is his blood no longer rapturous enough to make up for his imbecilic prattle? Is that what you need me for -- to give you some mental stimulation? I should think your efforts to control international politics would keep you busy enough. Or is that getting too old, too little of a challenge for you?"

"Nothing of the sort," Mycroft levelled a flash of anger. "And I won't have you insulting my spouse, Sherlock. I do this purely out of concern for you. You are my brother, and while I appreciate your sobriety, you are still hopelessly out of control. Someone needs to balance you, Sherlock. Since you have no mate, that has to be me."

"I'm not a child. Nor your responsibility." He sat down on his sofa. "Dear God, you'd think that three centuries would be enough time for you to accept that I've no need to be swaddled."

"I really don't want to do this to you," said Mycroft. "But you force my hand. I've put a hold on your bank accounts. You are cut off. I won't fund your spiral towards destruction anymore."

Sherlock hissed. "Don't pretend this is about my self-destructiveness, Mycroft. You were perfectly content to fund that for _years_ while I did nothing more than flop uselessly around your flat. This is about your possessiveness. This is about you waking up one day to realise that something you felt entitled to has escaped your grasp. Well, I’ll not play that game anymore. You don't own me."

"You are right, I don't own you." He smiled just a bit tightly. "Do enjoy your independence, Sherlock. Remember, my arms are always open, should you care to return to reason."

With that he left, trailing behind him an aura of confidence that made Sherlock want to kill something.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock considered his options. He had built up over the last five years a respectable number of thralls. He cursed himself a little each time he did so, vowing that he wouldn't devolve into Mycroft and use them as lackeys, but truthfully, thralls were so _useful_ that way.

The bulk of his thralls were various homeless people, who served as his eyes and ears on the street. The blood bond of thralldom made it easy to contact them and summon them to him, even at distances. The rest of his thralls were former clients. People who already were bound to him through a debt of gratitude. People who had goods or services he found useful.

Mrs. Hudson had been different. Though a former client herself, she’d had (at the time he'd made her) nothing really to offer. Her vitality was low, as was normal for a human nearing the end of her natural life. Sherlock fed only rarely on her, and when he did, her blood held almost no nourishment. She had neither street contacts, nor influence, nor any particular skill he could put to use on investigating.

And yet, she was the one thrall he had no compunction at all in making. He'd taken her for one reason only: He liked her.

He liked her the way he liked very few people and for reasons he'd never been able to fully put his finger on. She was simply very pleasant to have around. Sherlock found himself often after a case coming by her flat and sitting at her table while she gave him cups of tea that he didn't drink and plates of biscuits that he couldn't eat. He'd regale her about whatever case he'd been on, and she'd listen, raptly.

Now that her husband was ensconced in an American prison, she had been able to gather up enough funds to purchase a set of flats. 221 Baker street, A, B and C. She'd taken A for herself, being that the ground floor was easier on her arthritic hip. C was too small, and dank and dark besides. B, however, was perfect. He'd intended, before Mycroft had cut off his bank account, to use the second bedroom as a lab. Now he could see another use: a flatmate.

He'd considered the idea before: having a human around to do the domestic chores, cleaning, perhaps even some assisting. There were many times in his experiments when he cursed that he only had two hands. But the problem had always come back to him: Who could he stand to have around him _that_ much?

And there was the other, less comfortable side of the coin as well: Who could stand him?

 

* * *

  
John was miserable. To be honest he'd been miserable for months, but in Afghanistan he'd had _reason_ to be miserable and somehow that made it easier to bear. Now he was exactly where he wanted to be, where he'd fantasised being with his mates while bunkered down in some mud-walled hut in the rocky, goat and poppy infested war zone. They'd all imagined obsessively what they'd do when they got back to Britain: the foods they'd eat, the movies they'd see, the girls they'd shag. And he'd been right there with them, saying: "I want to live in London. I want to be surrounded by interesting things and people who aren't trying to kill me."

He hated London. The problem was, he was pretty sure he'd hate everywhere else, too.

There was something missing in his life that just didn't seemed to be filled by anything, and God knew he'd tried. Gambling might have fit the bill, if he actually had the funds for it, which he didn't. Alcohol held a double thrill, in part because it got him recklessly drunk, in part because he knew alcoholism ran in his family. But in the sober, and painfully hung over light of day, he knew that it was neither a solution, nor a very satisfying way to play Russian Roulette.

He hadn't quite gotten to actual Russian Roulette, but probably only because you couldn't play it with a Sig.

It was random chance that he'd met up with Mike Stamford while walking wistfully down memory lane at Bart's campus. If weight gain was a sign of happiness, Stamford seemed to be a very happy man indeed.

"You shouldn't be living on your own," was the conclusion Mike came to after hearing John's rather pathetic account of his last months.

"Yes, yes. So says my therapist," John replied, dismissively. "I can't go back to Harry, Mike. I already tried. I lasted two days and I consider that to be a minor miracle. We are oil and water." 

"Actually, I wasn't thinking of Harry." There was an odd gleam in Stamford's eye. "I was thinking more along the lines of finding a flatmate."

"Who would have me?" John asked defeated. "I … haven't been that personable lately."

Stamford smiled. "Funny, friend of mine said the exact same thing this morning."

 

* * *

  
Sherlock felt Stamford out in the hall. There was even a slight sense of his mood (happy, eager). He sighed a bit impatiently. This was the problem with thralls, they were so inconveniently distracting. How Mycroft juggled hundreds of them, all thinking and feeling and wanting and _pushing_ , Sherlock didn't know. It was hell for one's concentration.

Mike Stamford and Molly Hooper were necessary evils, he reminded himself. Stamford gave him access to Bart's classrooms and labs and free reign over the equipment. Molly gave him access to corpses, all under the administrative disguise of medical research. It had all worked out fine for years, but lately, though, Molly'd become increasingly romantically infatuated with him. He really had ought to do something about that.

The door opened up, and a smell that was deliciously and unexpectedly _not_ Stamford, wafted in.

Sherlock looked up, suspicious. A short man, normally of stocky build but now hiding his thinness under a loose checked shirt and a heavy jacket, limped into the room. Soldier hair cut. Injured. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome – still shedding vitality, willy-nilly like he expected his life to end any moment. Mouthwateringly eager to have some monster snatch him up and steal away his blood, take him to the brink.

Sherlock let out a breath. Mystery solved. Just a twitchy ex-soldier. For a second he'd been worried the man might be a _mate_ or something.

Still, distracting. Sherlock put his pipette down, thankfully having finished the minor test before these two had interrupted.

"Bit different from my day," the soldier was murmuring to Stamford.

"You've no idea," said Stamford.

Sherlock ignored the niceties. "Mike, I need your phone," he said to his thrall. "Mine is out of battery," he said for the other's sake.

Mike winced a little at the tug. "Sorry, I left it in my jacket."

Sherlock threw out a thread of glamour at the soldier. _Bring me your phone._

Instantly the man twitched, he looked down and pulled a slick expensive mobile from his pocket.

 _Come to me._ The glamour was half hearted at best. A normal person could have brushed it off with a distracting thought, but Watson seemed tugged like he'd been put in chains.

"You can use mine," he said, limping dramatically across the linoleum.

Definitely not a mate, Sherlock thought, relieved. Mates were notorious for being able to throw off glamours. Infinitely annoying at times, though he and Lestrade had long ago come to a mutual understanding. No, this wasn't a mate. This man seemed unusually susceptible glamours.

That made him something infinitely _better_. Sherlock didn't suppress the smile. A potential second pair of hands. Perhaps even an extension of himself.

Sherlock took him in some more. His availability positively reeked like some aphrodisiac perfume. The state of his phone and his apparent need of a flatmate screamed that he was unattached. No pesky relatives to fend off. No close friends either to become concerned. And with that smell, the man positively _begged_ to be made a thrall. If Sherlock didn't take him, Mycroft undoubtedly would.

No, that wasn't going to happen.

Sherlock had come to that conclusion in the time it took to rattle a quick text off to Lestrade and solve a case.

"I think you'll make an excellent flatmate," said Sherlock, handing the man back his phone. "Yes, you'll do nicely. Good eye, Mike.”

"Wait," said the soldier, turning to Stamford with confusion. "Did you tell him about me?"

"Not a word," said Stamford, smug that his master had praised him. "He just knows things like that."

"Pity I can't stay with you now," said Sherlock with a smile. "But you are far too distracting and I've business that needs attending. The address is 221B Baker street. I'll meet you there at seven tomorrow and we can see about getting you moved in."

"221 B— wait now. Hold up!" said the soldier completely consternated. "Listen, we've only just met, don't you think we should get to know each other before agreeing to share a flat. You know _nothing_ about me!"

Sherlock turned. "I know you are an army doctor, recently retired due to an injury, though interestingly enough, not to your leg. That is psychosomatic. You have a brother named Harry who you can't live with, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because you disapprove of the way he treats his wife. You also have post traumatic stress syndrome which makes you worry that you are unbearable for anyone else to live with. You fear that you are going to kill yourself, especially since you have the means at hand and the knowledge to do it right."

"How did you –?" said the soldier stunned.

"Really, the only question is, were you posted in Afghanistan or Iraq."

The man simply stared. He looked over to Stamford, who shrugged. "He's always like that."

"If you wish to know my methods, you'll meet me at 221 B, but I assure you there is nothing supernatural about them." Which wasn't actually a lie, even though Sherlock was supernatural. He liked the irony of that. He headed to the door feeling job very much accomplished.

"Wait a minute, you don't even know my name," said the soldier. "Nor I, yours. I don't know anything about you!"

Sherlock paused. The man was right. Part of him thought that it didn't matter, but it was important. If he weren't to hold this man under a glamour at all the time, he'd need to keep to his good side.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he said and held out his hand a bit awkwardly.

"John Watson.” The soldier shook hands with only the slightest hesitation. Lefty, Sherlock noted.

"And as for my bad habits, I keep very random hours, I'm horribly unsocial, I like doing experiments, I play the violin—"

"Poorly or well?" John interrupted.

"Well," assured Sherlock.

"Not a problem."

Sherlock smiled again. "Surely then, we are perfectly compatible. Now I really need to go. I left my riding crop in the mortuary and I'd hate to have it stolen."

With that he left.

* * *

John was stunned. He wasn't sure which amazed him more: the fact that, in the space of twenty minutes, he'd gone from first considering a flat-share to shaking on one, or the fact that he actually liked this Sherlock Holmes.

There were so many things about the man which by all rights he should have hated. John had little patience with arrogance. He was a practical man and big part of being in the real world was being somewhat careful of the people in it. He wasn't a huge fan of know-it-alls either, at least not normally. It went back to arrogance -- those types spouted b.s. as often as they did truth. The entitlement the man exuded also annoyed him. Sherlock had looked him up and down like someone about to take possession of a pet.

Yet, despite that, John _liked_ him. Or maybe, to be more accurate, he felt a very strong fascination with him. In large part because he'd actually knew his stuff… though how?

"That was… astounding," John finally said. "I'm floored."

Mike Stamford was watching him with a smile plastered on his lips. "Yeah, he has that affect on people."

"I mean, is he for real? Or did I just hallucinate that up. Because, hallucination seems a bit less far fetched." John scratched his head. "And did I really just agree to share a flat with him?"

Mike laughed and put an arm around John's shoulders, leading him back out into the hall. "Oh, Sherlock's real, alright. I know what you mean, though. He's quite the charmer."

"Charmer?" John said, skeptically.

"Maybe that's the wrong word," admitted Mike, lolling his head with humour. "It's the oddest thing. Half the time I think, 'What a wanker!' but I still find myself doing everything he asks. It's," he snapped his fingers. "Charisma, yes. Whatever it is, he's got it in spades." Mike went thoughtful. "He's a good looking chap, too. Not that I'm inclined that way. But I think that might factor in as well."

John screwed up his lip. He'd noticed that Sherlock was handsome. It wasn't something he felt wholly comfortable admitting, more because of the disconcerting degree of the attraction than on principal. He'd prided himself on being secure in his sexuality. Sherlock made him question his assumptions.

"And there's the other thing with Sherlock," Mike went on, unaware of John's thoughts. "He has this way of sucking up your attention, like a sponge. He'll stop to visit for ten minutes and next thing you know half the morning is gone. Poof. And not a thing to show for it." They reached a door with a frosted glass window and Stamford’s name attached to a brass plate to one side.

"How did you two meet?" John asked as Mike unlocked his office. The door opened up on a messy, well lived in place, full of folders and papers. A collection of three-dimensional plastic models of each of the organs adorned the shelves behind his chair. Mike did look like a proper teacher.

"Uh, lets see. Five years ago, I think. Yes. Back in 2005. He knocked on the door of my office and started asking for questions about posthumous trauma. I told him I wasn't a forensic pathologist but I suppose I was able to answer enough of his questions. He came back a few days later and asked if he could use one of the labs for his studies." Mike touched his chin with his hand. "And see here's the odd bit, too, because he wasn't a student. I didn't know a thing about the man. But I let him use the facilities."

"That charm thing."

"Exactly. I trusted him. And I really shouldn't have. There's equipment in there worth a quarter million quid. Some of it is quite delicate. I didn't even know his name. I'd have lost my position if anything had gone awry."

"I take it that he didn't destroy anything."

"Oh no, of course not. Tell you what, I wish he were a student. He'd make an excellent physician, but the crime bug bit him a bit too hard for that. He doesn't have the patience to learn systematic anatomy."

"Crime bug?" John felt a twinge of alarm. "What has he to do with crime?"

"Not like that. He's a sleuth. A detective. That thing he does where he rattles off your life history, that's him being observant. Seeing clues."

"Ah," said John relieved. Well that sort of explained the eerie way Sherlock had picked up on John's life. "I suppose I won't have any secrets from him."

He laughed a bit, but Mike's smile had faded.

"No. No, you won't."

* * *

Sherlock's mobile rang while he was picking up his crop. The movers were ready to deliver his boxes. Sherlock let out a gusty sigh of annoyance and caught one of the cabs that always lingered outside Bart's back to Baker Street.

The new flat was somewhat smaller than his old loft, and separated into a plethora of rooms. He needed his chemistry set right away so he had that taken to the kitchen. The rest he let the movers put where they willed, cursing under his breath the fact that he couldn't use the attic bedroom as he'd initially planned.

With any luck the new roommate would make himself small and unobtrusive. He didn't seem to be the type to own a lot of stuff. Perhaps he'd even allow Sherlock to use his cupboard. Instinctively, Sherlock reached out his mind to test the subject, but found, of course, no thread to follow.

More and more he regretted not making John a thrall the moment he met him. There'd been a dozen reasons why he hadn't: he was busy, wasn't hungry, they weren't alone, there was no immediate danger. On and on. Still he had only the man's promise that he'd come by the following evening. And glamours, especially ones as offhanded as Sherlock had used, rarely lasted longer than a few minutes, even on the most susceptible. What if John came to his senses and chose not to come? What if Sherlock had to actually track the man down?

Sherlock found himself disconcerted. This was new. He'd never had such urgent feelings about a thrall before.

With a shake of his head, he dismissed the feeling. _Mycroft_ , he thought to himself. _It's his fault. He cut me off and upset my life. John provided an elegant solution. It's natural I wouldn't want my plans to be further complicated._

He then turned his attention back to the chemistry set. Reproducing the poison that had killed three people was a surprisingly difficult task. It wasn't just that the ingredients were difficult to obtain – one of them needed to be synthesised. Whoever was responsible for this either was a first class chemist himself, or had a confederate who was.

Why so overcomplicated? Why give the appearance of suicide at all if only to blow the whole thing out of the water with a custom drug? What did the killer _gain_ by this?

Beyond the calling-card poison, the case was distressingly free of clues. Sherlock could find no connection between any of the victims. Not even tangentially. Even the places of their deaths weren't a help. From the lowly docks to a posh empty office in the financial district, the only thing in common was that they were untrafficked. This person was snatching people literally at random and taking them to random places.

The poison was a curious clue. The victims had taken it themselves, knowing full well that they were taking a drug. How the dickens had the killer induced them to do such a thing?

This was not a run of the mill sadistic killer. They typically preferred a more cathartic role, torturing or stabbing or bludgeoning. Poison was the preference of the weak or stealthy. Those who were more content in knowing that the person died than in watching the suffering take place. But yet suffering was an important ingredient. A dose of cyanide (far more easily obtainable) would render a victim unconscious in seconds. This nasty poison left a victim awake, helplessly and painfully convulsing for the better part of 20 minutes before suffocation finally took them. So definitely a sadist, but one who was playing to a bigger audience than just his victim.

This wasn't a terrorist, whose interest was less in the victims than in the fear their deaths would cause. It wasn't dramatic enough. The murderer had been waiting weeks for his uproar to come. Too patient. And yet there were elements of terrorism in this. Here was someone shouting to the world how oh-so-very clever he was. And London had been absolutely gripped by fear. There was a message in this. A demented one, but most definitely a message. Either this was a brilliant lunatic, or else someone up to something very subtle.

There was a buzz from Sherlock's mobile. About bloody time. He snatched it up and looked at it.

>   
> 
> 
> `Back off.  
>  The public is panicked enough.  
>  You don't need to goad  
>  the reporters -- GL`  
> 

Sherlock sighed angrily. Lestrade had waited nearly an hour just to tell Sherlock off? He turned off the Bunsen burner, and then ran his thumbs over the keys.

>   
> 
> 
> `Let me in.  
>  You need me.  
>  He's getting bolder -- SH`  
> 

 

>   
> 
> 
> `After this stunt you are  
>  lucky I don't arrest you. -- GL`  
> 

 

>   
> 
> 
> `How many must die for your pride?—SH`  
> 

There was a pause of almost a minute before there was a reply. Sherlock turned the burner back on.

>   
> 
> 
> `If we get something new,  
>  I promise I will tell you.  
>  Leave the reporters out.  
>  Discretion -- GL`  
> 

Sherlock grinned smugly. The gambit had worked. Lestrade’s fear of bad publicity trumped his petty desire to prove himself. And about time. There'd been nine days between the first murder and the second, but only four between the second and the third. The murderer was gaining confidence. He'd take a fourth soon, and when he did Sherlock needed be on the scene to see the clues.

Sherlock turned off the burner again, and lifted the beaker. A white residue clung to the bottom of the glass. Back to Bart's to analyse it and make sure it was what he predicted it to be.

All thoughts of thralls, John, Mycroft, or even Lestrade had fled. He was in his element again.

 

* * *

  
Greg was late again, as he had been for going on three weeks. Damn suicides, thought Mycroft. Not really suicides, it was painfully obvious to even the public that they were murders. The poison was a peculiar, custom mix, a home-made stew of strychnine and a rare catalyst to speed the miserable reaction. Not exactly something a human could pick up at the corner chemist's. And yet, Greg was there on the telly spouting calming nonsense, and otherwise spinning his wheels, when he should damn well be home.

Mycroft ordinarily didn't poke his nose into Greg's work, not only because he had enough of his own to fill his time, but also Greg absolutely needed to have an area that wasn't overshadowed by his husband. It was the one thing he was most adamant about. Mycroft could dress him, house him, feed him, choose his daughter's schools, but he was not giving up his job. Mycroft tried to respect that, but some days he really wished Greg was a beloved thrall rather than a mate. It would be so much more convenient.

Then he could say things like, "Toss it over to Sherlock, I'm sure he's already bugging you for the chance to solve it," and Greg would actually do it.  
But Greg had his pride, and he really wanted to do this without Sherlock's help. Mycroft sighed. Why were the men in his life so stubborn?

Mycroft hit the mute and continued to watch Greg silently mouth platitudes towards his skeptical audience. He felt a soft presence at the back of his mind, smiled and waited.

"Papa?" came a soft voice from the doorway. Elsie, the younger of his daughters, ducked her head into the sitting room. "Is uncle Sherlock moving in tonight?" Her curiosity was like a bright flower in the gloom, livening his spirits.

To Elsie and her sister, Emma, Uncle Sherlock was a mysterious creature, spoken of frequently about the dinner table, but rarely seen. Their few sightings of him were at Christmas, where he'd delight them by showing them spectacular, semi-destructive tricks that could be done with ordinary household chemicals. Thankfully the girls had their daddy's good sense not to ever repeat any of them.

"No sweetheart. He found a place he likes better. You'll see him next month at Christmas." Mycroft then frowned. Right now, Sherlock would be moving into his new Baker Street flat. Mycroft's attempt to get all the ones he cared about under one roof had failed.

Elsie looked disappointed.

"Is Daddy coming home soon?"

"That is ever my hope," he sighed. Mycroft reached out a hand towards her. The sweet little ten year old came running over towards his lap to give him a hug. Midway along her path, her eyes happened to look in the direction of the muted telly.

"Daddy!" she cried and she swerved to throw herself in front of the flickering screen. The reporters were all looking at their phones and Greg seemed nearly cross-eyed with irritation. Sherlock was obviously shooting his own foot trying to be clever again. Greg would never put up with this. And so much for hoping for an early resolution of this miserable affair.

Unaware of anything more than her daddy's image on the screen, Elsie watched delighted, until a few minutes later, the press conference ended and Mycroft switched off the machine.

"I think it will be another late night," said Mycroft.

Eliza sighed hugely, then got up and trudged back to her room with elaborate dejection.

Mycroft considered glamouring her back for that hug, but he knew she'd come on her own given time. And Greg, too. Perhaps even Sherlock.

In time. Patience.

* * *

That night John dreamed of Afghanistan. It wasn't the normal nightmare, the one where he crawled across the battlefield and tried vainly to stitch together soldiers blown to bits by IEDs. This was the one that came less often, that couldn't even be wholly classified as a nightmare, though it had nightmarish elements.

In the dream he was on a peacekeeping mission to the mountain villages east of Kandahar, bringing medicine and setting up temporary clinics in the hopes of winning over the hearts of the local population. This was a good dream for the most part, because the locals did largely greet them well. It never failed to give John hope that there was good to be done and he was doing it.

But then the dream soured, much as real life had.    
Suddenly, mid triumph, he was back in that mud-brick house, his small band of support surrounded by armed insurgents. In front of him sat Aamir no-last-name, the local "elder". Even though all the other dream elements were foggy, and shifted when he focused on them, Aamir remained sharp and somehow permanent.

Aamir was a wiry man, much younger than John had expected. Younger than many of the men who surrounded him. His eyes were dark and unfathomable. His beard was a scraggly thing that extended to his breastbone. There was no humor or warmth in his expression.

John had disliked him on sight.

"What is your message?" Aamir said through a translator.

The sergeant tried to answer, but the Aamir waved him quiet and looked solely at John.

"Who do you belong to?"

And here is where John stumbled in the dream, coming up with many bland but true things to say to try stave off the inevitable. _I'm a doctor, I'm British, I'm part of the Army, I'm a peacekeeper._ But all the answers just seemed to make Aamir angrier.

In moments the bullets started to fly.

Then he woke up.

In reality, the debacle that inspired the dream hadn't been nearly that bad. It was little more than two hours worth of fruitless discussion, where John (and Aamir insisted that it be John who spoke) tried to reassure his suspicious host that he meant no harm, while Aamir asked questions that frankly bewildered the interpreter as much as they did John.

_\--Who are you married to?_

_\--I'm not married?_

_\--You won't find a spouse here._

_\--I wasn't looking for one, honestly._

_\--You are trying to trick me._

_\--I'm trying to help._

_\--I should kill you before you help my rival._

On and on in a paranoid manner. No matter how much John assured the man he wasn't after the village women and wasn't trying to spy for some neighbouring warlord, he couldn't seem to get through to him. All the while, the Sergeant worried that things were escalating in a dangerous direction and tried to organise a strategic retreat.

Eventually the warlord did let them go and no bullets were fired. They were escorted to the border of the village, without having dispensed so much as aspirin. It had been an unexpectedly hairy and disturbing end to what should have been an easy and rewarding mission.

Now, months later, staring at the rent-by-the-week hotel ceiling, John wondered what it was about that incident that resonated so strongly in his mind. As failures went, it wasn't nearly bad as others. And yet he couldn't get Aamir out of his mind. He remembered an odd repulsion that crawled under his skin far more than Aamir's inflammatory accusations.

Sherlock Holmes was the same. John blinked. Once he thought of it became obvious. That unreasoning attraction was in many ways akin to the repulsion he'd had for Aamir. John didn't believe in psychic auras or any of that new age mumbo-jumbo, but if he did he'd say that Sherlock's soul was _magnetic_ , with the pole set the right direction this time.

 _I better watch myself with him,_ John thought.

* * *

  
Late next morning, Sherlock took the train to Cambridge and visited the Department of Chemistry for clues to the genius who'd synthesising the poison pills. It was a goose chase and not even a terribly interesting one. Lestrade had had the same idea a week before, and despite Sherlock's superior deductive skills, he ran up against the same walls. The professors gave him a less-than-polite run-around, and his poking about their labs and questioning students proved unfruitful as well.

Even so, he would have stayed longer if he hadn't agreed to meet with John at seven.  
He returned to London, full of annoyance that he'd needed to deal with the flatmate situation now and not, say, next week when the case would hopefully be wrapped up. He reminded himself how useful it was having a second pair of hands, and that _not_ keeping this appointment would certainly drive those hands away.

Sherlock loitered outside the building. Impatient to get this meeting over so he could get back to his case.

And then something _unnerving_ happened.

Just the memory of the soldier and his ridiculous overabundance of vitality made Sherlock feel a sharp uptick in hunger. His teeth began to extend in anticipation of a meal, and not a simple courtesy nip to anchor a psychic connection. Fantasies of a full on, drain-til-he-staggers feast wracked his imagination. The thought of dapper, prim John lying ashen pale with blood loss, stripped and pinned and undone, both physically and psychically, wormed its seductive way into his conscience. God help him. He was in _lust_ with this man.

A stranger passing by on the street took one look at Sherlock and flinched away, giving him a wide berth. Sherlock startled then realized the man was disturbed by the predatory look on his features. Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand, appalled.

He'd not felt so wantonly gluttonous in over a century.

 _No. I won't feed on him._ Sherlock schooled himself, tamping that undisciplined urge down. He impatiently pressed the errant teeth back into place with his tongue and forced his face to return to its normal pleasant expression.

Dear, God, what was the matter with him? The _last_ thing he needed was to oversate himself in the middle of a case. Hunger sharpened all his senses. The hunting instinct gave him the endurance, strength and energy to work day and night. And most of all, the act of feeding by itself provided a strong temporary bond with his prey. To waste his hunger on someone who wasn't connected to the crime would be _idiotic_.

He schooled his appetite back. Reluctantly his teeth retracted.

And just in time. John's cab pulled up and already his smell was wafting about the street like a succulent roast to the starving. If only there were a way to _scrub_ that scent off of him. How had John managed to walk the streets of crowded London without being accosted by another vampire?

Never mind. Unimportant.

He moved in to handle his new flatmate in the normal human way. Sherlock held out his hand and John shook it, meeting his eyes with innocent pleasure.

“Glad you could come.”

John shrugged modestly, “I really didn't have anywhere else to go.” His smell grew if anything more delectable.

Sherlock suppressed a groan. The _moment_ this case was over, he vowed to properly drain the man. If for no other reason but to make him less of a bloody siren. He'd be doing the vampire world a favor.

For now he settled for turning his back and knocking on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened up and introductions were made all around. She lead them upstairs and showed off the flat, explaining the costs and showing off the better features.

“Yes, this is lovely!” John's eyes were wide, taking in the view, the furniture, the atmosphere. Sherlock felt a wave of pride that his tastes and John's lined up. “With some cleaning up,” John continued, “This place could be very nice.”

Sherlock stiffened, self-consciously aware of the clutter. In his hurry to unpack his lab, he'd carelessly thrown open boxes and tossed the irrelevant contents on whatever horizontal surface was nearest. The chemistry lab itself was still out, unwashed, on the kitchen table. John's nose wrinkled a bit as he passed it.

“Hmmm.” Sherlock could sense disapproval. Army doctor. Of course, John would be used to everything being tidy.

Sherlock quickly moved to straighten up a stack of books and tossed a errant pair of pants out of sight behind one of the chairs. “I can be better.”

“It's okay,” said John, gently. “You've just moved in. It's always a disaster after a move, isn't it?”

“Yes.” Sherlock was at a loss. He wouldn't have called the clutter a _disaster_ per se. More like mid-week normal. In his previous flats he'd hired maids to straighten things up. He'd gone through quite a number of them, in fact, before he found one stolid enough not to quit. But he couldn't afford her rates anymore, not with his funds cut off.

Dear god, he might have to pick up after himself. _Regularly_. He looked at Mrs. Hudson.

“I'm not your housekeeper,” she said quickly.

John, thankfully, hadn't seemed to notice. He was looking in the refrigerator. Uh-oh. “Say... that isn't...”

Sherlock spoke up quickly. “Research. I do research.”

“On human toes?”

“I'm a detective. Surely Mike told you this. Knowing how long it takes to mummify flesh at various temperatures is necessary for the job.”

“In the crisper drawer?”

“Well, I couldn't very well leave them on the counter. It'd be far too warm.”

“Hmm,” said John again.

“Will this be a problem?”

John squared himself to Sherlock and seemed to challenge him with his eyes. “Listen, I should tell you, I've screaming nightmares. Sometimes as many as three times a week. Will _that_ be a problem?”

Mrs. Hudson frowned but Sherlock threw out a glamour to wipe the worry away.

“Not at all,” said Sherlock. Once John was a thrall, Sherlock could work on whatever mental problems were plaguing him. It would probably solve the excess vitality problem as well. Mycroft frequently diddled with his more damaged thralls to bring them back to pristine mental health.

That is if John stuck around that long.

“Then I think we'll be fine together,” John said. He seemed to have relaxed, as if he thought a bit of noise in the night would be more of a problem for Sherlock. “I'll forgive your eccentricities, if you'll forgive my more unpleasant quirks.”

“Deal,” said Sherlock, impulsively grabbing his hand to shake again. Relief was heady. He hadn't realized how frightened he'd been that John might call this off.

 _It's the smell,_ he reassured himself. _It's far too distracting._

“Shall I show you the upstairs bedroom?” asked Mrs. Hudson. “Or,” she said looking from one to the other, “Will you not be needing a separate one.”

Sherlock looked at her surprised. Now where on Earth had she gotten that impression? He then considered his own behavior. He'd barely pulled his eyes away from John since he'd exited the cab twenty minutes ago. He hadn't put more than two seconds of thought toward the case. Sherlock touched his face. Had he really been grinning this entire time? Gah, no wonder he'd mistaken for being love-smitten.

John looked startled. “Of course, we'll be needing two bedrooms.”

Mrs. Hudson waved away the reaction. “Don't worry, there's all kinds around here.” She lead John up the stairs, and his smell retreated with him.

Sherlock stayed behind, thankful for an excuse to have a break from temptation. He'd cleared off a chair and sat. Almost immediately, he saw a blue light reflected in the curtains.

 _Yes!_ he thought. _Finally! The right kind of distraction._

Mrs. Hudson and John staggered down the stairs again. Between her stiff hip and John's psychosomatic limp they managed to cover over the sound of Greg Lestrade knocking at the front door. Mrs. Hudson and John reached the living room just as Lestrade's grey head grew visible in the stairwell outside the flat's open door.

“Sherlock's been working on the suicide murders,” Mrs. Hudson was saying to John. “At least I expect that's what all the lab equipment is.”

“Really?” said John brightly. “I always suspected those three people didn't kill themselves.”

“Four,” corrected Sherlock, happily. “There's been another!”

“How'd you --”

Greg Lestrade stepped into the sitting room, and now there were two humans screaming to be fed upon. No wonder Mycroft had been so pissy the last few days. From the sheer volume of vitality Mycroft's mate was putting out, he must have been playing hard to get for at least a week.

Lestrade's scent wasn't quite as mouthwatering as John's, but all that excessive vitality, contained in a small room...

Sherlock impulsively opened a window.

“There you are, Sherlock! The front door was unlocked.” Greg looked around the place. “You know, could have texted me that you'd moved. I wouldn't have had to have asked around –”

“Where was the murder?” said Sherlock sharply, having no interest in Greg's chastisement. The faster he could get his brother's mate out of the room, the more likely he would be able to not make a ludicrously infantile scene. “When?”

“Some squatters found the body about an hour ago. It's in Lauristen Garden, an abandon building.”

“But there's something different,” said Sherlock excitedly. “A note?”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “God, I hate it when you do that. There's no way you could have guessed that.”

“No guessing, the look on your face makes it obvious it was something different. I merely mentioned the most likely possibility. Yes. The murderer's finally slipped!”

“Yes, I think so. Well then, come along,” said Greg tiredly. “Though don't get your hopes up too far.” He turned to head back down.

“Who is running forensics on the case?”

Greg winced. “Anderson I'm afraid.”

Scent or no scent, Sherlock actually forgot about his hunger for a second. “Oh god, no, I can't work with him. You know that!”   
Greg let his head tilt and sighed. “I didn't put him on my team to antagonise you. He's been there from the start and I'm damn well not going to unassign him because you are now in. ”

Sherlock sighed angrily.

Anderson. Of _all_ the people. Anderson. The man was like a psychic static generator. Worse than unglamourable, he actually sapped Sherlock's powers. 200 years ago his type carried around stakes and torches and hunted vampires down. In these less superstitious days, Anderson's relatives were no more dangerous than a particularly shrill car-alarm, but instinct wouldn't let Sherlock relax around him.

But some things couldn't be helped. Greg was reluctant enough bringing Sherlock on in the first place. Sherlock would simply have to do the forensics himself and simply try to block the other out.

“Oh, very well,” he said at last.

“Shall we get going?” asked Greg.

Sherlock shook his head. “Go ahead, I'm not going to be confined in a car with you smelling the way you are now. Dear, God, when _was_ the last time you were home? You reek.”

Greg stiffened and sniffed at one of his armpits.

“Sherlock!” chastised Mrs. Hudson. “Don't you go saying rude things like that. She turned to Greg. “You smell perfectly fine, dearie. Don't let him put you off, he's just in a snit because of all the packing. He's absolutely thrilled you came calling.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why did everyone have to be so stupid. Mrs. Hudson and John might have an excuse for their ignorance, but Greg shouldn't have mistaken his meaning.

Sherlock leaned in and breathed in Greg's ear, “Couldn't that lazy, pompous spouse of yours take half an hour of his time to meet you in a cleaning closet? How long has it been? A week?”

Greg's eyes widened. “I didn't realize that you could --”

“Of course, I can.” Louder he said. “I'll follow up in a cab.”

Greg nodded and headed back down the stairs. Sherlock relaxed.

“That was unbelievably rude,” John mentioned to him. His easy voice belied deep disapproval. “There was nothing at all wrong with his smell.”

Sherlock waved him off. What did it matter what this soon to be thrall thought of him? He threw out an encompassing glamour and Mrs. Hudson and John forgot all about his less than tactful comment on Greg's smell.

Meanwhile, there was a bloody _case_ waiting for him in Lauriston gardens. Why on Earth was he messing about here? John would be just as delicious smelling when he returned. With a hop in his step he headed out the door.

He made it to the bottom of the steps before a belated realization brought him to a halt. He smacked his forehead and raced back up. I am _not_ on my best game today, he thought.

He ducked his head back into the flat. John was sitting down in one of the chairs looking rather frustrated. He startled when he noticed Sherlock looking at him.

“Forget something?”

“Yes. You.”

“Me?”

“You are a doctor, aren't you? An Army doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Used to violence. Not terribly squeamish.”

“No, not squeamish at all.”

“Talented?”

“I'd like to think so. Yes, I'm quite good.”

Sherlock grinned. “Want to help catch a serial killer?”

John's face broke into a huge smile. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

 

* * *

If he hadn't been warned not to read too deeply into Sherlock's less conventional behaviour, John would have sworn the man was flirting with him.

Thankfully, Mike had given him the skinny. Sherlock had a rich relative who'd been providing for him for years, but apparently a falling out had left him stripped of income, except for what he garnered from his investigations. If John was desperate for a roommate for psychological reasons, Sherlock was desperate for sheer brokeness.

“He's not an easy man to get along with,” Mike had cautioned. “He's rude and his temper is famous.”

Sherlock had been anything but rude and ill tempered when he'd shown John the flat. His face had positively lit up every time John approved of something. And he'd been thrown into a tizzy at the least sign of disapproval. Everything down to the tone of his voice was thinly edged with need.

It was rather nice on the ego, John decided. He hadn't felt this wanted since he'd left Afghanistan. Nice to be the one chatted up rather than the one chatting for a change.

“You know,” he said casually in the cab, “Mike was right about you.”

Sherlock's eyes widened with sudden paranoia. “What did he say?” he asked with suspicion.

John laughed goodnaturedly, “Nothing terrible. Well okay, a few terrible things. He said you were a tactless, sarcastic bastard.” Sherlock's expression didn't change. Apparently he was okay with that part of his personality. “But he also said you had a way of making people fall in love with you despite that.”

“Did he mention I was brilliant?” Sherlock asked, seeming to dismiss what John said as if it were unimportant.

John clicked his tongue. “No he didn't. But I figured it out anyway.”

Sherlock grinned. “Good.”

John sighed. “You know I envy you. There's something about you. I bet you have all the women you could ask for.”

Sherlock's frown was back. “I do – but what would I want them for?”

Now it was John's turn to frown and grow flustered. “Or men, I suppose. If you prefer. Which is okay.” Perhaps Sherlock had been flirting with him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You needn't worry, John. My heart has already been taken.”

“Oh?” asked John, genuinely curious. “By whom?”

“By what,” Sherlock corrected. “By my job. By this!” The cab had stopped some fifty feet shy of a police crime tape. “How could anything compete with this?” He flashed a disarming grin.

Their discussion halted as they entered the crime area. Sherlock's famed rude side came out. No sooner had he gotten close but Sherlock was engaging in verbal fisticuffs with the officer guarding the perimeter. John cringed with embarrassment. Deducing who was sleeping with whom? Snide remarks about infidelity? The dirty laundry came fast and furious, leaving everyone breathless.

Worst of all, John had the distinct feeling that Sherlock was doing it for _his_ benefit, as though giving away other people's dirty secrets was supposed to impress him more than he already was impressed. John gritted his teeth and fought the urge to slap Sherlock.

“Oh what is it?” Sherlock growled as John fumbled into a proffered clean suit. “Out with it!”

“Did your mother teach you no manners?” he blurted.

“My mummy has _impeccable_ manners.”

“Yes, that's very good for her, but what you did to those officers – and to the detective inspector earlier – that's – it's not on! It's just not on!”

“Do you think becoming my flatmate gives you the right to become the keeper of my conscience?” The syllables dripped with sarcasm. Sherlock was suddenly very close and his eyes very dark.

“No – I –“ John was flustered again. What the hell was he doing here? What did Sherlock want with him? Sherlock had his back turned and was climbing the steps far quicker than John could keep up.

Lestrade waited for them on the landing. The door was open and John could see a woman lying on the floor. “You have five minutes.”

“Ten,” Sherlock argued.

“Five,” repeated Lestrade. “Listen, it's irregular as hell having you here at all. Don't muck things up for me any more than you already have.”

John wondered what Sherlock had done. But then his questions were brought short by Lestrade’s lingering look at him.

“Saw you at the flat,” Lestrade said. “How do you know Sherlock?”

“I'm his new flatmate,” said John. Sherlock was kneeling over the corpse, staring and pawing in a deliberate, but not evident way.

“Know him long?”

John looked at his watch. “... Going on about an hour and a half all told. If you add in the three minutes yesterday when I met him for the first time.”

“Why'd he bring you along?” Lestrade asked, concerned.

John just shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“John,” said Sherlock sharply. “Come here.”

The next couple of minutes reminded John eerily of a recurring nightmare he had, where he was late to the final exam of a class he hadn't remembered to attend. His medical knowledge was good enough to state the obvious – the woman was dead, asphyxia was the cause, and there was no outward signs of fight or trauma. All the things that, frankly, John knew before he walked in the door, thanks to Sherlock's brief in the cab. The only thing different was the word she'd scratched into the floorboard with her fingernail and John had no clue what that meant.

Sherlock seemed impatient with his answers, Lestrade looked baffled, turning his eyes from Sherlock to him and and back. John knew he'd failed. Worse than failed – looked like an utter prat.

Sherlock then went through his schtick impressing them with all sorts of details that John had utterly missed. Lestrade's face lit up and he nodded. John slunk into a corner and tried to become invisible. Or he would have if Sherlock hadn't kept directing his answers at him, as though it were John who needed the information rather than Lestrade. Lestrade stared with bemusement.

 _Oh just shut up and let me die in the corner in peace._ If there were a way to feel more awkward and useless than this, he had no idea.

“Leave Dr. Watson be,” Lestrade finally snapped. “What do you mean 'overnight bag'? There was no overnight bag.”

“None? That's it!” Sherlock shouted. “Of course! The mistake!” Then abruptly, Sherlock ran past John, taking the stairs three at a time, like a teen.

John turned to Lestrade, “Where's he going?”

Lestrade shook his head. “No clue. Sorry. But you better hurry if you want to keep up.” And ended the conversation abruptly and finally by pulling out a mobile and stepped away, turning his back pointedly to him.

Well that was great, John thought to himself. This was _just_ what he needed to get himself back on track.

John began stumbling down the stairs. Hurry wasn't something he was capable of, not with his leg aching the way it was. He passed Anderson, the real forensic's specialist, on the next landing. The derision on his face was impossible to miss. John didn't protest it. He'd been absolutely useless up there. The whole thing had just been another attempt on Sherlock's part to impress him with his stunning intellect and fascinating career.

The street outside was empty. There wasn't a sign of Sherlock anywhere.

Just great! Now that Sherlock had an actual lead, he'd ditched John without a second thought.

“If you know what's best for you,” said Lt. Donovan, joining him next to the police tape. “You'd stay away from him.”

John looked at her. She'd been one of the officers that Sherlock had insulted. “Why's that?”

“There's something wrong with him,” she said, gazing out with a thousand yard stare. “And by wrong, I mean really, really wrong. Unnaturally wrong. Stay away from him or he'll get into your head like Hannibal Lecter.”

Oh you're kidding. “Does he want to eat my liver?” John joked.

“I wouldn't laugh.” Anderson joined them “Trust me, we've known him for years. The crap talk coming out of his mouth is the _least_ of your worries. I've seen him _do_ things. He's not human.”

Oh, Christ, this was rich. John couldn't hold it in any more. He laughed. “Oh come on!” he looked at one then the other of them. “You don't mean that. He's not human? Hannibal Lecter? Bit melodramatic here.”

“Why are you here?” Donovan asked. “You wonder that?”

“I'm here because Sherlock asked me to be here.”

“You mean, you are here because he _manipulated_ you here,” said Anderson. “Didn't that strike you as a bit odd, you wanting to come visit a crime scene?”

John considered. It hadn't seemed odd to him at all. He'd thought the idea, at the time, was an exciting one. But perhaps it had been more that Sherlock's enthusiasm was catching. He enjoyed any excuse to be near the man. It was a creepy realisation.

“You're here because he's got a use for you,” Donovan sneered. “He's going to use you, mate. Use you and use you. And the moment you stop being useful, he'll cast you aside. That's how he sees people. As tools.” She looked haughty.

“Well, I _know_ that's not true,” John said bitterly.

“But we've seen through him,” Anderson added. “That's why he hates me so much. Because he can't pull that trick on me. I've seen it in his eyes. He's scared of me. He knows one of these days I'm going to catch him over the line.” He then turned around and walked back into the building.

Donovan nodded. “You best go,” she said. “He won't be coming back here, and we have better things to do than babysit you.”

“Fine,” said John, bowing under the police tape. “I'll just get out of your way.” He was rather inclined to agree with Sherlock's dislike of these two. Though it didn't excuse Sherlock's earlier rude behavior, it was clear that the antagonism went both ways. He'd long ago learned not to involve himself in other people's feuds.

As he made his way down the street in search of a cab (or barring that some clue was to where in London he was, this neighborhood was unfamiliar). One thing for certain, he was no investigator. Why was he here?

This whole evening had been madness. What _had_ he involved himself in?

 


	2. Chapter Two

 

 

 

 

Mycroft was still at the office when Greg called. GPS on his phone put him in the Lauriston Garden's area. Another crime scene. He sighed and answered. “So you aren't going to be home in time for a late supper?”

“Fraid not. We've got another. ”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “You know, your daughters are beginning to wonder what you look like.” With a mouse click he called up the CCTV's in Greg's area, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. “I'm beginning to wonder, too.”

“I look unshaved and could use a shampoo, but otherwise the same as I looked two days ago. Besides, I'm pretty sure you've been peeking in on me. I've noticed the cameras moving.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You can hardly blame me. I do worry about you. But more to the point, you have to come home sometime, Greg. Sleeping at the office can't be good for you. I need you.”

There was a brief commotion in the background and he heard Greg ordering some of his people around. Then Greg's voice came in clearer: “Yeah, Sherlock mentioned that I stank today. I'm guessing that's vampire code for 'needing to be fed on.' Of course, he could have meant that I needed a shower. Are you hungry?”

“For you, always.”

“But you have been eating elsewhere, right? You aren't about to die on me because I'm busy with this homicide investigation.”

“I feed daily. That doesn't stop me from needing to feed on you. Nor you of needing to be fed on. Sherlock doesn't have a mate, I'm sure you must be distractingly tempting right now. Of course, he knows better than to try lay a tooth on you.”

_He better._

“That's reassuring,” said Greg, a bit dryly. “Oh, speaking of Sherlock, the reason I called. He brought his flatmate to the crime scene, that's a first. Interesting man. Doctor, apparently. Sherlock asked his opinion about the murder.”

New thrall, thought Mycroft. Didn't take long to find a flatmate it seemed. “Was he helpful?”

“Not in the slightest,” said Greg. “But you'd never know it to look at Sherlock. If I had to guess, your brother was showing off like a peacock to him. It was rather funny. I've never seen Sherlock smitten by someone before.”

“Smitten?” Mycroft's interest went up several fold. “Are you sure Sherlock wasn't simply currying favour?

“Oh, possibly. I mean, I've seen him being ingratiating before and he can charm the pants off anyone, but this wasn't that. He actually looked vulnerable – for a bit.”

“For a bit?”

“Yeah, then he noticed an actual clue and raced off, leaving the poor man behind. So I wouldn't put too much stock in this being significant. Just thought you might find it interesting.”

“How very odd.” Mycroft murmured. “Where is this Doctor?”

“He just left the building about a minute ago. Hold on. Yeah, I can still see him right outside, looking lost, poor fellow.”

Mycroft's hands flew over the keyboard, training all the CCTVs in the area toward the building Greg apparently was in. He saw the police tape and focused in on a clump of three people. One was readily identifiable as Anderson. Mycroft felt a prickle of anxiety, even though Anderson's powers didn't extend through the wires. The uniformed officer was Donovan, one of Lestrade’s regulars. The third was someone new.

Mycroft tightened the focus on his face. Thirties, weary looking. Military hair cut. Army medic then. PTSD? – that would give him a certain tastiness. But why bring him along? Sherlock never ate when he was on a case. If he wasn't useful and he wasn't food, what _was_ he?

“What's his name?” he asked after a long moment.

“John something. Watson. Yes.”

“John Watson. Thank you, Greg. This is very interesting, indeed.”

“Oh, boy. You are being creepy again,” Greg warned. “And now I feel like I've ratted him out.”

“Oh, it's nothing I wouldn't eventually have noticed myself. You are guilt free. Don’t worry about John Watson. Spend your energy on finding a way to come home soon.”

“I will.”

“Promise.”

“Promise – right after I've raided Sherlock's flat for the evidence he's searching for.”

“I see. Right after that, then.” Mycroft chuckled as he hung up.

Then swiftly he went into action. Pressing a button on his desk, he called into an intercom. “I need any information you can find on Dr. John Watson, thirties, recently retired from the military. James, His psychiatrists notes would be useful. Candice, his military records. Anthea, please take a car to the immediately to the Lauresten Gardens neighbourhood. Let's see what it is about this man that my brother finds so terribly fascinating.”

Mycroft turned back to the CCTV. Watson was on the move, but not very fast. He called up a list of phone numbers in the area and began ringing them as John approached.

John didn't seem to notice the first phone. The second made him pause for a moment, but then he went on. By the fourth even John couldn't ignore it anymore. Reluctantly he lifted the phone.

Mycroft could see the car with Anthea in it slowly approaching the curb. His fangs lengthened in anticipation of a capture.

  


* * *

Sherlock found the baggage. Of course, he did. There was only a limited number of places a person could stash a bag, especially one _that_ awful a colour, and not have it be immediately noticed. And the killer, Sherlock knew, was clever enough to hide it, but not so clever as to realise that in some neighbourhoods abandoning pristine luggage in the street would invite immediate theft rather than alarm. Had the bag been simply left out in the open, he never would have found it.

Instead it was buried in a skip, tucked in turn down a narrow, seldom used alley, a mere four blocks from the murder. Highly predictable.

The killer thought he was smart. But he wasn't. Not nearly clever enough to make that pill. Ergo, there had to be two people, which explained the mixed message. Oh, delightful! Utterly delightful!

Humming cheerfully to himself, Sherlock towed the luggage back to Baker Street. He garnered a fair number of surprised looks, what with the harsh pink clashing awfully with his wardrobe and his masculinity, but he simply smiled them off. He was in a _good_ mood.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he called through the door of 221A. “Did you let John in? I'm sorry I forgot to give him a key before we left. I hope he wasn't too angry.”

Mrs. Hudson opened her door. “Oh, he's not been back since you left.”

Sherlock stopped. “What?” He reached in his pocket for his mobile, but there were no messages that he'd missed. “There are plenty of cabs around. He should have been back fifteen minutes ago.”

“Well he's not,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Perhaps he went back to his old place. He's not properly moved in.”

Sherlock felt a shudder run through his middle. In retrospect, abandoning him at the scene wasn't the most friendly thing he could have done. On the other hand, he could hardly have expected John to climb across the rooftops the way he did, looking for those hidden skips. Common sense would have dictated he return to rendezvous with him at the flat. Was John too thick to realise that?

Sherlock sent out an offhanded psychic call to the man and then kicked himself. There was no connection. Still.

He should have made John a thrall. Such a simple procedure, five minutes of time, and why-oh-why hadn't he spared them? Ten drops of blood down John's gullet and Sherlock could have found him half way across town. He could have called him and John would come running as fast as his weak leg would let him.

Or the other way around: Sherlock could hunt _him_. Follow the connection between them until he spotted his prey. Chase him down to some back alley. Celebrate his discovery by holding John against a brick wall, tearing free any offending clothing, and sinking his teeth deep into the flesh. The heady, thick flavour of his blood. The euphoric surge of vitality. The delicious shudders as fear turned to desire. The complete surrender of all John was and all he'd ever be to Sherlock.

 _Now. Now. Now._ Like a pulse through his mind.

Sherlock's teeth had descended. His bloodlust rose, painfully sweet. With a much stronger glamour than needed, he sent Mrs. Hudson back to flat, because he didn't want to attack her. She turned around without a worry and closed the door on him, taking her weak, thin scent with her.

Well, one good thing was coming from this: His bloodlust had heightened his senses to an exquisite degree. It would be a shame to waste this state worrying about a man who doubtless had done exactly what Mrs. Hudson had said: gone back to his miserable hotel, wherever that happened to be.

Yes, yes. It was just as well John wasn't here, because if he'd walked in the door at that moment, Sherlock would have wasted this wonderful heightened state on actual hunting. And rather violent hunting at that. He'd have to glamour some explanation for the torn clothes when Sherlock finally released him.

And then Sherlock would be sated and useless for hours, or perhaps, given the degree of gluttony he seemed to be feeling, days. _Thank you, John, for not being timely._

He lifted the luggage and almost flew up the stairs. He was in full hunting mode. His intellect was on _fire_. Safe in the living room, Sherlock turned his attention towards the pink bag.

The luggage was rife with clues that only a vampire could sense. First, there was the smell of garbage, reeking oil and rust and decay. Dust and dirt. Vampirically, these were null scents, easily ignorable. Intellectually interesting perhaps, but nothing to lengthen his teeth or wet his mouth. Since he knew where they came from, he dismissed them.

The next strongest scent was the woman. She was layered with perfumes and creams and soaps, slathered with chemicals to mask the richness of her humanity. Had Sherlock been in less than full on vampiric lust, that would have been all he sensed. In this state, he was able to ignore the scream of artificial odours. Underneath was the much more lovely scent of her her natural self. She smelled fertile, well fed and healthy, eager to be fed on. She'd been very much alive when last she touched the bag. There was no fear scent in the sweat, only effort and concupiscence. She'd not known she was about to die.

Under her scent was just the faintest trace of the killer. The contact had been brief. At no point had the killer actually allowed his bare flesh to touch the bag, which was too bad, since that would have given Sherlock a clear trackable identification. As it was Sherlock only got the smell of his clothes. The bag had brushed against his trousers. His leather clad hand had grasped the handle.

Less interesting was the contents. A second set of clothes, a bag of toiletries, a book. Condoms.

No phone. Bah.

Sherlock turned away from the briefcase and lay on the couch, thinking. A picture built: She'd entered the car (yes it must have been a car, not a train, not a bus) not knowing she was in danger. The luggage had been placed in the trunk and forgotten. Up until that point, everything must have seemed completely normal.

Why would she enter someones car without fear? Because ~~she knew her killer~~ she trusted her killer. Why would she trust someone she didn't know? Because it was his job to drive her.

A cabbie. Obvious. It fit all the murders. The victims had willingly entered his cab, their thoughts filled with their destination. Once inside, the killer had been able to drive them where ever he found most convenient to dispose of them. By the time they realised the error, they were trapped. As for the victim profile – it truly was random. Anyone unlucky enough to hail his cab when the murderer needed his rush ended up with a pill in their mouth. Simple as that.

No, not that simple.

There was still the message clawed into the woodwork to explain. And the missing phone. Of course, she had to have a phone. But it wasn't in her luggage and it wasn't at the scene, which meant she ~~lost it~~ hid it with the murderer. If she thought there was a chance she'd survive, she'd have kept it on her, but she'd known she was going to die. The murderer was a braggart. Why leave the phone? Because she knew its built in GPS would track him down and the phone itself would provide incontrovertible proof of his guilt. The word scratched into the floor – a password. GPS would allow anyone with the password to track the phone.

Oh, yes. This woman was _smart._ She died knowing she was taking her murderer down with her.

  
It all seemed perfectly clear and obvious thanks to Sherlock's heightened senses and racing mind. And here John worried that he wouldn't be that useful. His desirability was a perfect tool. Sherlock would have to remember to thank him when he returned.

– The world froze.

John needed a cab.

And he was missing.

Sherlock sat up as if shocked. His hand was on his mobile instantly. What was John's number? Dear god, he didn't know John's number! He'd been so caught up with the case and his own situation he had taken John for granted. He hadn't bitten him, he hadn't fed him, he hadn't gotten down his pertinent information. He'd been so assured that he had time for all of that. But what if he hadn't?

This case had distracted him!

No, no, this panic was for nothing. The killer surely wouldn't be looking for another kill this soon, would he? The last corpse was barely cold. That must be enough of a thrill for one night. Hanging around the murder scene while the police were there would have been stupid.

But the killer wasn't as smart as he thought. He let the woman plant her _mobile_ on him. And his kills were getting closer together. It was possible!

He didn't know John's number but Greg did. Sherlock had used John's phone yesterday to text him about the Jarvis case. The number would still be in his history.

`Is John with you? – SH`

The answer came back a few seconds later. `No. He left forty minutes ago.`

`Did he catch a cab. v. imp!`

`I'll ask Sally, she talked to him last.`

`You have his number, I need it immediately. `Perhaps there was time to warn John at least.

The next text was delayed an unbearable amount of time.

`Relax, John is with Mycroft. I just talked to his people. He's fine.`

Two emotions hit Sherlock one on top of the other. The first was terrible relief. John was safe. He hadn't entered the killer's cab after all.

The second was utter fury. John wasn't safe. Mycroft – starved after days of being spurned by his mate – was probably feasting on him right now, wallowing in all that extra vitality in a state of self-satisfied debauchery. Fucking him, too, if he knew his brother. The man rarely met a meal he didn't stick everything he could into.

Sherlock's imagination, strengthened by his own thwarted bloodlust, was far too clear. He could see John splayed out on Mycroft's decadent, overlarge bed, naked but for a sheen of sweat and whatever body fluids Mycroft had worked out of him. His mouth wet and open, eyes half-lidded. Exhausted. Tiny bruises flanking his thighs from Mycroft's overenthusiastic fingers. The vanishing marks of Mycroft's teeth on his bent and proffered throat.

 _No. No. No! John is_ mine!

And Mycroft doubtless knew that. Which is precisely why he'd poached him. Revenge for Sherlock thwarting his plans. Spite. Something he could lord over Sherlock, in that smug way he had.

_You let this delicacy slip from your fingers without marking him? You let him wander the streets smelling like this? Surely you knew it was only a matter of time before some other vampire gobbled him up. Be glad it was me, and I might, if you ask very nicely, give him back._

Sherlock fingers flew over the buttons of his phone.

**GIVE HIM BACK**

**NOW**

  


* * *

  
The basement meeting spot was about midway between work and home. Not a place Mycroft had ever been to before, nor planned to again. Sherlock could turn London upside down before he accidentally stumbled across this place. And it would have to be an accident — Mycroft left neither scent nor paper trail for his perceptive brother to follow. He would have plenty of time to thoroughly get to know this Watson chap without Sherlock's intervention.

Without much difficulty, he was able to get the night watchman to open up a side door and wait patiently for Anthea to arrive. The man's mind was naturally dull and Mycroft's glamour took quite solidly without need for feeding to solidify their connection. He'd wipe the watchman's memory as soon as he was done with the place.

`Bring him in,` he texted Anthea, after scanning Watson's service records and psych reports. Anthea was driving the poor fellow around now, eating time until Mycroft was fully prepared.

He licked his lips in anticipation. Soldiers always made the most delicious meals. So young, so fit, so emotionally traumatised. Just how much vitality was this poorly-adjusted, mentally-scarred man producing? And how problematic was his mental state? And for that matter, how accurate were the psych notes? For a man with supposed “trust issues”, Watson seemed to jump into untested situations without much compunction.

And there he was.

John's scent preceded him. Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed it in. Dear Lord. The man was nearly as enticing as Gregory. What sort of soul searing action _had_ he been through? He must be an emotional _wreck_. Funny, he'd sounded calm enough over the phone.

Then came the man himself, entering at the far side of the echoing machine room with Althea a step ahead of him. He looked small and vulnerable compared to the giant size of his vitality. Despite his psychologist's notes, he didn't seem particularly shellshocked. In fact he appeared quite composed considering the circumstances. At most he was wary and annoyed. A bit of adrenaline adding spice to an already piquant dish.

Suspicious. Could it be...? Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

“Come to me,” he ordered, throwing out the strongest glamour he could. John hadn't even attempted to avert his eyes. John took a step forward and then stopped. Just like that, the glamour had snapped.

“I don't think so.”

Yes, of course. Mycroft's smile broadened. A _mate_.

It explained everything. Sherlock's behaviour. This man's. Even Sherlock's reticence to take Mycroft's offer of a place. Some part of Sherlock's soul must have sensed a mate ready for him and didn't want want another vampire too close.

As for John Watson, the call to bond for mates was weaker, but there. Perhaps poor adjustment simply meant _dissatisfaction_. And John's social isolation was merely an awareness that that he needed to keep himself in reserve for someone.

Gregory had been similarly effected. He'd talked about a growing disinterest in his marriage and friends months before he'd met Mycroft. His social life had been utterly nonexistent when they finally bonded. It was only after they'd been together for some weeks that Greg began to renew contact with his old acquaintances and find more friendly ground with his ex-wife.

“Don't be afraid,” said Mycroft, gently. “I won't bite. Now that I know who you are, it wouldn't be appropriate, sadly.”

John's eyes narrowed. “I have no idea what you are talking about. Who are you and why have you brought me here?”

“I am...” Mycroft hesitated. “A concerned party.”

“Concerned about what?”

“About Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft took a step forward, leaning on his umbrella to give a reassuring, if false, appearance of infirmity. John stood still, watching him with a guarded expression. “I'm quite worried about him. He and I have been... rivals... for a very long time."

Watson took the information in with a small nod.

“And what are you to Sherlock, may I ask?” Mycroft continued. How much of the situation did John know?

“I'm none of your business,” said John, curtly.

Is that how he was going to play this! Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “You met Sherlock for the first time yesterday, two hours ago you moved in, forty minutes ago he took you to work. It's all progressing rather quickly, wouldn't you say? Has he told you what he wanted from you?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” Mycroft was surprised. “And that is?”

“£150 a week plus half the utilities.”

“Oh now, don't be obtuse. He didn't bring you to the crime scene to shake you down for rent money. He _wants_ something from you. Did he tell you what it is?”

John looked like his patience was being stretched. “He wanted my doctorly opinion on a corpse.”

“Tch!” said Mycroft. “Then he hasn't told you yet, has he.”

“Told me what?” John was doing an admirable job of holding his emotions in check, but his heart sped up at those words.

“Who you are. Who he is.”

And John's heart slowed back down. “You bring me here to talk in enigmatic riddles? You are the strangest kidnapper I've ever--” He stopped. His mouth snapped shut. What was that? A little widening of the eyes, broadening of the pupils, as if he'd made some sort of connection and had finally become properly concerned.

“Oh, I'm quite sane.”

Mycroft came closer. John didn't back off. Clearly fear wasn't the reason for his refusal to come to him earlier. Mycroft could cross the space between them in less time than it took for John to react, but it was better taking it slow, seeing just where he'd draw the line. He was almost within arm's reach and John's only reaction was to stand a bit straighter and tighten the muscles of his arms.

Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. There was no trace of Sherlock on him. Not blood, not saliva. There was no marker left showing that he'd ever been taken by a vampire. Sherlock had kept him close but he hadn't touched him.

Was he resisting the call? If so it made no sense that he'd hold his mate so close, where his body would have no choice but to react.

Or was it possible Sherlock simply didn't not recognise what John was? It seemed impossible that Sherlock wouldn't know his own mate, but then Sherlock had shown a remarkable degree wilful obliviousness in areas he didn't wish to deal with. He'd said many times that he had no intentions of ever taking a mate and had nothing but contempt for the idea of creating childer. He'd spurned close friendships. He barely deigned to eat properly and tended to choose his food from among those least pleasant to feed from. It was just barely possible his libido was doing an end run around his obstinate will, making sure that he'd be irrevocably triggered before he had a chance to avoid his fate. Even though he couldn't consciously tolerate a mate, perhaps unconsciously he still longed for one.

Oh the grist for the vampire rumour mill. Mycroft chuckled to himself. Someone should really do a formal study of vampire psychology sometime. There would probably be a name for this.

“Perhaps I should rephrase. What do you want from Sherlock, Dr. Watson?”

“I want --” John hesitated and seemed to catch himself. His eyes narrowed. “Also none of your business. What do _you_ want? With me? From him?”

Mycroft considered. “I want information,” he said, calculatingly. He pulled out a check book. “For which I'm willing to offer a considerable sum. Nothing that you'd feel awkward or bad about divulging. Public matters. Trivial things.”

“No.”

“I haven't said how much I'll pay. You are unemployed and Sherlock is broke. A bit of extra money would be very useful. And if you take over some of the payments, it would even benefit Sherlock.”

“Still no,” said John when he finished.

“You are very loyal to a man you've barely met. Don't you wonder why?”

“I'm not the kind to betray people, even those I've just met.”

Mycroft took the last step. He was now in easy reach of John. Generally humans considered this too close. John stiffened but held his ground as if defending this particular spot of concrete were his job.

“Give me your hand,” said Mycroft, gently.

John's impassive demeanour broke briefly and he frowned. “No.”

“Then hold it still, in the air. I wish to show you something.”

John held his hand in the air. It was still, utterly so.

“You're psychologist claims the tremor in your hand is due to stress, but you are in quite a stressful situation right now and it's quite steady. You don't have post traumatic stress syndrome, at least not to the degree everyone has been claiming. You are, in fact, completely sane and grounded. What's going on with you is something quite different.”

John looked at his hand, surprised. “What?”

In that moment, Mycroft made his move, clasping the hand and bringing it to his lips. One fang grazed the bared skin on John's wrist. Too light to penetrate, but enough to spread a line of saliva across the flesh.

John yanked his hand away and held it to his chest. He stepped back, once, twice, until he was out of arm reach again. Mycroft let him. Tempting as John was, he was not thrall material at all. Mycroft was the last person to get in the way of Sherlock's happiness.

Though he was not above giving it a good hard push in the right direction.

“You are lonely, Dr. Watson. Go back to Sherlock,” Mycroft said, turning his back to John as if to dismiss him physically as well as verbally. “My assistant will take you.”

There was a ringing of a phone and Mycroft paused then reached into his pocket. He clicked on the message and let out a soft chuckle. To Anthea he said. “Take him home.”

  


* * *

John was sitting next to the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen this side of a telly screen and she was ignoring him. That part wasn't a surprise. Though there had been a time, not too many years back when even women out of his league would at least give him a once over and a laugh before dismissing him. But the thirties had been a bit harder on John than most people and he knew he showed it in his face.

Just his luck. At least the blokes seemed to find him attractive enough. What was up with that odd kiss his captor gave him before sending him off? His wrist still tingled from it. The worst of it was the deja vu feeling he got, as though he'd been through this before. Back in Afghanistan. The warlord and peacekeeping mission gone wrong.

John shuddered.

If nothing else, looking at this incredibly beautiful woman made a nice distraction from thinking about what happened.

So it was that they'd gone several blocks before John realised they were headed North towards Regent's Park.

“I'd like to be dropped off at my flat, please,” he said. “It's in South Kensington.”

“Mmm,” said the woman. She didn't look up and the car didn't deviate from it's path.

“So, where are you taking me?”

“Home,” she said brightly.

“And that would be South Kensington, where all my things are.”

“Mmm,” she repeated non-nondescriptly.

“I don't live at Baker street. I don't even have a key. I was just checking out the place. And really, I've had a long enough night. It's almost midnight.”

“He's waiting for you,” she said looking up and giving him a slightly pitying smile.

“Him who? Sherlock Holmes? I rather doubt it. He's chasing about looking for a murder.” That came out slightly bitter.

“Mmm,” she said, more guardedly “Here we are.”

The car pulled up to the curb and the driver opened John's door. His traveling companion smiled expectantly at him. Not really wanted to be kidnapped for longer than he had to be, John got out and stood in front of the building. He took a deep breath. Up on the second floor the curtains twitched and he saw Sherlock's face glowering down.

He sighed. Well at the very least he wouldn't be locked out. Wearily he limped up the steps.

“I'm only here a moment,” he said as he opened the door to 221B, figuring that the best way to deal with the incredible night was to simply treat it as fluke. “I thought I could get your number and we could talk about arrangements --”

He turned around from closing the door to find Sherlock standing no more than an inch away from him. He jumped, his shoulder hitting the door frame.

“What did he do to you?” asked Sherlock, looking sharp and dangerous.

“What did who do to me?”

“Mycroft. The man who abducted you. Did he glamour you to forget? I can smell him on you.” For the second time in fifteen minutes, John found his hand being raised to someone's face. “He touched you, here. _What do you remember?_ ”

There was a slightly dizzying quality to Sherlock's voice and John felt the pressure of words against his mouth. Then he tightened his lips and pulled his arm hard. “What are you doing? Let go of me.”

Reluctantly Sherlock let go. John retreated into the room, staring around at the jumble of boxes and equipment. The reek of chemicals from the kitchen made his nose twitch. Part of him still thought the place had promise, but right now he wasn't really sure it was worth the work, both physically and emotionally.

“You want to know what happened?” he asked Sherlock. “You really want to know?”

“Yes!”

“Well so do I,” said John. “I'd _bloody well_ like to know what's going on. That man, Mycroft, you called him, he controls the CCTV system. The bloody CCTV system. _How_ can he do that?”

“Yes, I know. That's not important, John. The important thing is _did he bite you?_ ”

“Of course, he didn't bite me!” said John limping to the kitchen and grabbing one of the chairs. He felt like his leg was about to collapse under him. “Why on Earth would he bite me?”

“Then what did he want from you?”

“He wanted me to spy on you. He offered me money.”

“Spy? Really? Is that all?” Sherlock looked suddenly relieved. “Did you take his offer?”

“Of course not,” said John.

“Pity.”

“Who is he?”

“My brother. Trying, I imagine, to find yet another way to force himself back into my life again. He didn't bite you, but he touched you. I can smell him on your wrist.”

“And does your brother normally bite people?” John had chalked the touch down to an odd kiss, but now that he thought about it, it had felt more like teeth than lips. _Wait, what was that about smelling?_

“Yes. He's a vampire. It's what he does.” Sherlock was staring at him in a guarded way.

“Your brother's a vampire?”

“Yes.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really,” repeated Sherlock.

“Okay,” said John abruptly too tired for all this weirdness. “I can take being made to look a fool at a crime scene. That was my fault, too. I tooted my horn a bit more than I should have, you couldn't know that I didn't have the skills you needed. Thank god you were brilliant enough for the both of us.

“I'm also fine with you just running off and forgetting me when I become inconvenient I'm a grown up, I can take care of myself and you have a job to do.

“I'm even marginally okay with being kidnapped by your brother – that wasn't your fault.”

“Naturally not!”

“But lying to me after all that?” John shook his head. “There I draw the line.”

“I'm not lying.” 

“Vampires, Sherlock?” John shook his head. “No. Enough. I'm tired. You're busy. Give me your number and I'll talk to you tomorrow about the flat. It's a lovely place and the price is perfect, but I'd rather not rush into any decisions at the moment.” Because that decision would be “no” and damn it, he _needed_ this place. John got up and began walking towards the door.

“You are leaving?” Sherlock asked.

“Just for the night.”

Sherlock placed himself in front of the door. “No. You can't. I still need you. It's not safe for you to be out there like you are. Trust me, I read Mycroft's message loud and clear. If you could just bear with me another hour – I've almost solved this case. Then I can, I can--” He stopped talking and his mouth gaped open.

“Oh dear god,” he said.

John stared at him. “Is it always like this around you? Never mind. I don't want to know. Just move out of the way.”

“Cluck like a chicken, John.”

John brushed aside an utterly madcap urge to comply. “The hell? Stop it, Sherlock.”

“Take off your shoes!” Sherlock was staring at him as if he could skewer him with a look.

“I can't believe Mike put me up to this. I'm going! Get out of the way.”

“WAIT!” Sherlock shouted, throwing his arms wide to block John. Then in a softer voice. “Please, wait.”

John hesitated.

“You chose to give me your mobile yesterday. Explain!”

“What?”

“I didn't ask you for your mobile, but you gave it to me yesterday, why?”

“Because yours was out of battery and Mike had left his in his coat. I had a mobile...”

“It was the nice thing to do.” Sherlock's eyes widened with what could only be horror.

“Yes.”

“Why did you come to the crime scene with me tonight?”

“Because … I don't know, I thought I might be able to help.” At Sherlock's crushed expression John expanded. “Because I was bored. It sounded interesting. And you wanted it.”

“You could have said no.”

“Do you wish I had?”

Sherlock looked stricken. “No! No. Oh, God, John. Oh God. You aren't easy to glamour – you are impossible. You're a mate! You have to be. It explains everything. You're my _mate_!”

John frowned. It seemed jarring that Sherlock would use such a word.

But before he could respond any further there was a thunderstorm on the steps. The door burst open, hitting Sherlock in the back. He moved aside and Mrs. Hudson entered a step in front of Lestrade and what seemed to be half of Scotland Yard.

“Oh for God sake, Greg,” said Sherlock. “Not now! Worst. Timing. Ever!”

“Hello, Sherlock,” Lestrade said with a calm smile. “I expect you know why we're here.”

“OUT!”

“Okay, if you say so,” Lestrade half turned around then shook his head in a self-deprecating manner. “Oh no, wait. Look what I have here in my pocket. Is it a warrant to search your flat? Why yes it is!” Lestrade held up a paper.

“On what grounds?” Sherlock snatched the paper. “My _ASBO?_ that was three years ago!”

“Your probation specifies that I can search your flat for drugs any time I deem it might be necessary. Oh and look, there's a pink suitcase sitting out on your table.”

“You have an ASBO for drugs?” asked John, surprised.

“It was _three years ago._ And I didn't take them myself,” he said to Lestrade.

Lestrade leaned in and spoke so quietly that John could barely make out what he was saying, “Because that makes it so much better.”

Lestrade’s people were filing into the flat in a seemingly endless stream. John recognised many of them from the crime scene earlier and he rather expected it was the exact same group. Several converged on the pink case, the rest fanned out to search the rest of the flat, including poking into some of Sherlock's closed boxes. “There's _nothing_ in ther--” Sherlock spun towards the door. “NOT HIM!”

“Hello, Sherlock,” said Anderson, smiling.

“Greg there's no reason for _him_ being here. You are just being spiteful.”

“He volunteered,” said Lestrade. “And it wouldn't have happened if you'd called me when you found the luggage. How many times have I warned you about tampering with evidence?”

“I was _going_ to call!” Sherlock said in very close to a whine. “I'm so close to solving the case – I just need to--”

Someone brushed against John's back, jostling him. He looked around and noticed Sally poking at the chemistry kit. “Is this cocaine?” she asked, pointing to some powdered residue in one of the beakers.

“Lick it and see,” dared Sherlock.

“Don't!” Lestrade warned.

 _This is a zoo,_ thought John. Once again he was in the middle of a crime scene he had nothing to do with and couldn't in any way help. He felt like an obstructive bystander. _Well enough of this,_ he thought to himself, grabbing the door handle and turning sideways to slide past one of Lestrade's team. The man ignored him. John gave one last glance half way down the stair and barely saw Sherlock's head turned away. He was shouting to someone to be careful with a box.

John turned around and shook his head. It was hard not to laugh as he stepped out into the street. The whole situation just seemed like dinner theatre with the bit about vampires making an interesting second act intrigue. But as odd and funny as it was, John was just as happy to be out of it.

Outside was eerily quiet. John took a deep breath of the cool night air, then glanced at his watch. Midnight. Usually he was in bed and sound asleep by ten.

A cab pulled up, finding a spot between all the police cars. A cabbie ducked his head out of the open window and called to him, “You look like you could use a lift. Can I take you somewhere?”

John walked over to him. The cabbie was small and grizzled with age. He had a kind looking smile that reminded John a bit of his uncle Phil. “Yes. South Kensington, please.”

“Hop on in,” the cabbie said.

John opened the door and, without a second thought, climbed into the back.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

Goddamn Anderson, Sherlock thought. It was like having a shrill alarm in his mind all the time. “Don't _look_ at me!” Sherlock yelled at him, he then spun back to Greg. “Please, Lestrade. I'll explain what I know, just have him turn away. He's giving me a headache.”

Greg sighed. “Anderson, turn away.”

“Oh for... why are you pandering to him?”

“Because he knows where our killer is,” Lestrade said. “Go look upstairs for something.”

Anderson glared at Sherlock, but then stomped sullenly to the stairs at the back of the hall. “I don't know why he always singles _me_ out,” he called back.

Sherlock sighed with relief, but then noticed Sally shaking a small box with the word FRAGILE written in huge letters across the top. “Stop that! Lestrade, _please_ control your people.”

“Donovan, leave his things alone.”

“But the raid?”

Greg raised a brow.

“Come now, we all know this isn't a drugs bust,” said Sherlock.

“Sherlock's being cooperative, Sally. Let's not distract him.”

Donovan dropped the box on the table. “Oops.” She walked off following Anderson's footsteps to the back of the flat, no doubt to share their sour grapes with each other. Since the attic was completely empty of anything breakable or personal, Sherlock didn't mind in the least.

“You had a breakthrough?” Greg prodded.

“Yes, as I was saying... where's John?”

There was so many people in the flat, his sense of smell was being somewhat overloaded. But now that Anderson wasn't in the room turning his brains to mush, Sherlock noticed that one particularly powerful scent was rapidly fading. Sherlock looked about the sitting room and kitchen, ducking his head this way and that to see around people, but there was no sign of John. He crossed the floor, ducking Lestrade's people, and slapped open the door to the toilet. There was no one inside. John's smell faded out at the stairs to the attic – he hadn't retreated to his room.

“Where's John?” he called out loudly.

“He left,” said one of the uniformed officers in the kitchen. “He passed me on the steps.”

“When?”

“Two minutes ago. Maybe three.”

Sherlock dashed to door to 221B, throwing out a wide spectrum glamour to blur their perceptions of his speed. John's smell was still on the stairs and landing, fading, but not old. Out on the street the wind had blown most of it away, but Sherlock was able to follow it to an empty section of curb. And then it was gone.

Gone. Taken. John had gotten into someone’s car. _Idiot!_ Sherlock thought. But it was uncharitable. John couldn't have known better.

Oh if only Lestrade hadn't interrupted! Five more minutes – just five.

Calm. Being upset helped nothing. Think through the possibilities before settling on the worst.

He pulled his mobile out of his pocket. His hand was sweating. Mycroft's personal mobile was number 6 on his speed dial. He'd considered purging it, but he was glad he hadn't.

`Do you have John?` he texted.

Not waiting for the answer, Sherlock turned around and went back to the flat. Greg was half way down the main stairs, his face creased with alarm. “What's happening, Sherlock?”

Sherlock flew up the steps to meet him. “I need your car. Come with me now.”

“Is this about the case?”

“Of course, it's about the case.”

“I'll grab my people,” said Lestrade, turning to go back up the steps. But Sherlock grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Ow.”

“No, just you, Greg. This isn't a police matter anymore. It's personal. John's missing. If you involve them it will be messy.” Sherlock showed his teeth.

Greg pressed his lips together. “It doesn't stop being a police matter because it involves someone you care about. I have to tell my people something.”

“Very well, tell them you are taking me to the MET to question me. But hurry!” He let Greg go. The D.I. ran back up the stairs, rubbing his arm where Sherlock had held him.

Sherlock's mobile rang. He put the phone to his ear. “Do you have him? Don't you dare lay a finger on him.”

“Tush,” said Mycroft, his voice soft and unctuous. “I had Anthea drop him off twenty minutes ago. What has happened to him since then has nothing to do with me.”

“Damn it,” Sherlock cursed under his breath. “If you didn't take him, he caught a cab.”

“Calm down,” said Mycroft soothingly. “He'll return. If you recall, Greg didn't just jump in my arms when he was told, either. It's quite an alarming discovery. Give him a day or two to adjust to the idea before you panic.”

Sherlock was only half listening. His mind was buzzing with options. Call the cab companies and find out who was in the area – no too many. Glamour Lestrade's man to see what he knew – waste of precious time. Get John's number from Lestrade and call him – _best idea yet!_

“-- If necessary, I can talk with John again.” Suddenly Sherlock's mind snapped back to Mycroft. “I've been told I can be quite persuasive.”

“You keep your hands off of him,” Sherlock snarled. “You've molested him quite enough already.”

“Molested? Really? I barely touched him. Don't be jealous, Sherlock. It's an unattractive trait. Hard though you might find this to believe, I am faithful to Greg, at least so far as sexual matters go, and as for blood, I have plenty of thralls to maintain. He's your mate not mine.”

 _Your mate..._ Sherlock's heart lurched. _But I don't_ want _a mate! I've never wanted one._ And yet he knew it was already too late. Vampire biology had set in. In retrospect, he hadn't even _fought_ it.

“I don't have time for this!” said Sherlock, more to himself than Mycroft. He hung up and turned around in time to see Greg hurrying back down the stairs.

“Alright, I told them. Off we go.”

“Give me your phone,” Sherlock ordered him.

“You have your own in your hand.” 

“Now! Greg!” Oh, if only he could glamour Greg, but he was a mate. Trying would only make him obstinate. He'd made fun of Mycroft the last five years for having an uncooperative human hanging around his neck like an albatross. Now he had one himself. Mates were so damn _frustrating_.

 _I didn't ask for this!_ a weak, distant part of him whined. Nonetheless, fear hammered at Sherlock. Someone was endangering his mate. Wanted or not, John was _his_ and he couldn't tolerate the thought of anyone hurting him.

“Give me a moment,” Greg said, stopping at the bottom of the steps. He let go of the rail and reached into his pocket for his mobile. Though his voice was grouchy, his body language said that he'd picked up on Sherlock's genuine distress. “Here.”

Sherlock snatched the mobile from him and, while walking out the front door, keyed up the phone's history as fast as the phone's programming would let him. Greg had made a lot of calls in the last 24 hours, but there it was, judging by the time stamp. Sherlock pressed the send button and put the phone to his ear.

“Pick up. Pick up.” The phone rang four times then sent him to voice mail. “Damn it! He's not answering.” He tossed the phone back to Greg, who caught it with just a bit of a fumble. “Which is your car?”

“That one.” He pointed well down he street. “But before I take you anywhere, you need to start talking, Sherlock. What aren't you telling me? What does John's disappearance have to do with my case?”

Sherlock cursed how slow Greg walked, cursed the need to appease him, cursed that he hadn't taken those lousy five minutes with John to establish a bond. Even if it hadn't been a normal thrall bond, it would still lead him unerringly to the man. Seconds were ticking by and Sherlock was _helpless_.

Seeing Greg's expectant expression he launched into an explanation. The facts rattled out: The poisoner and the kidnapper. The woman in pink's final act of revenge. John's disappearance. The cab. He spoke quickly, nearly tripping over his own words.

“John's with him right now,” said Sherlock reaching for the handle on the passengers side of Lestrade's requisitioned vehicle and squeezed the locked handle uselessly. “I know it.”

Greg unlocked the car. “How do you know that John wasn't picked up by an ordinary cab?”

“What are the chances of one cruising this section of Baker street this time of night without being called?”

“This is just paranoia, Sherlock. Even if the murderer is a cabbie, how would he have known to come here? It's not like we put your involvement up on our website. I only knew your new address because Mycroft told me.”

“I let my involvement be heard loud and clear at the press conference last night,” said Sherlock shaking his head. He opened the door and climbed in. “Doubtless both our conspirators were watching that. And tonight, you and your people lead them right to me. He tapped the radio dimly on the dash. “For all that it's illegal It's not that hard to listen in. And I don't think fear of the law is that big a deterrent to these people.”

“It's still possible that John's just fine.”

“I can't take that risk.” Sherlock settled into the passenger seat, while Lestrade took the drivers.

Greg tapped his hands against the wheel. “Okay, which direction? Where are we going?”

Sherlock froze. There were hundreds of places that were all but abandoned this time of night. Construction sites, warehouses. There was no way to search all of them. John's life was measured in minutes.

The only clue was the missing phone. “Rache” she'd scratched into the floor. She'd been neither angry nor German when she'd picked out her password. She had, however been dying when she wrote it into the floorboards. So not Rache -- Rachel.

Sherlock tapped the screen of his mobile, calling up the woman's service provider. He had her account up in three seconds. Then he tapped in Rachel. And he was in. Now to find the GPS tracking option and hope he was correct that she'd stuck the phone under the cushions in the cab.

An hour glass tipped on the screen. Come on, come on. Don't be so slow.

“Mycroft says John's had some military training,” said Lestrade. “He might be able to hold his own.”

“I see I have you to thank for Mycroft knowing about John,” Sherlock said coldly. The hourglass icon flipped again.

“I'm sorry!” said Greg sheepishly. “But you know he'd have figured it out eventually anyway.”

The screen blinked and a map appeared with a star in the middle. It hovered over a nearby nursing college. Sherlock rattled off the address to Greg. “Move, now!”

“Should I put on my sirens?” Greg asked.

“No,” said Sherlock softly. “We don't dare risk alerting him. I want my teeth in him before he realises his game is up.”

* * *

John regretted leaving Sherlock the moment the cab pulled away from the curb. It wasn't a rational feeling. He was just going home for the night after all. It wasn't as if he weren't going to see Sherlock again. But as the cab made its first turn and 221 Baker street disappeared from view, John felt as if something inside of him were being stretched beyond comfort.

For all the unpleasantness of the night, it had been the most interesting and intense evening he'd had since he'd left Afghanistan. Even as he'd felt off balance and confused, there'd been a real thrill to it as well. _Dinner theatre indeed._ Even the kidnapping had been more exhilarating than terrifying. He liked the feeling of adrenaline coursing through him. He liked the relief that came when the fear went away.

 _I've gone completely around the bend,_ he thought grimly to himself.

And Sherlock. What was he to think about Sherlock? He was certainly fascinating. He had a kind of alien allure that mesmerised John. But something about him also made him nervous. It was as if there were some kind of looming immensity threatening to drop down every time he was near him.

Donovan's words came back to him, _He'll use you._

 _He manipulated you,_ Anderson had added.

 _He has this way of sucking up your attention, like a sponge,_ said Mike.

 _Has he told you what he wanted from you?_ Mycroft had asked.

The thing was, Sherlock hadn't done any of those things. He hadn't been anything but polite, if a bit eager to please and a bit melodramatic. Yet all that dire press was hard to ignore.

What did Sherlock want? John shuddered as he remembered how close he'd been – an inch a way at most – almost searing him with his eyes.

 _Did he bite you?_ Sherlock had demanded.

 _I won't bite,_ Mycroft had reassured.

Somehow vampires seemed like less of a funny joke.

“So,” said the cabbie, amiably to John. “What's in South Kensington, Mr. Holmes? If you don't mind my asking?”

John was startled out of thoughts. “I'm sorry, did you say – no, I'm – I'm not Mr. Holmes.”

He could see the cabbie's eyes in the mirror. They'd crinkled into a frown. “Really? But I picked you up from 221. That's the detective's address.”

“I'm his flatmate. But how would you know Sherlock's address at all?”

“Oh, the greatest detective? He's a minor celebrity. Friend of mine is a big fan of his. He'll be _so_ disappointed I picked up the wrong fare,” the cabbie went back to looking at the road. “Not me, mind you. I'm not so particular. I'm a people person, is what I am. I like everyone.”

John sucked in a breath. _Oh... shit._.

“Stop here,” he said. “Let me out.”

“Oh, but we haven't gotten to our destination yet, Mr... well now, I don't know your name, do I? Anyway, it's not far.”

They weren't headed to South Kensington. John recognised the roads well enough. Goddamn it, kidnapped twice in one night? What the hell was going on?

“What do you want from me?” John asked, tensely.

“Nothing big,” said the cabbie, amiably. “Just to play a game. It's an exciting game. Best one there is. It's called Life or Death. One of us is going to die tonight. The question is which.”

“Christ.”

“Are you a gambling man?”

John had the horrible urge to admit that he was. But this wasn't any sort of game he wanted to be part of.

“Thing about gambling,” said the cabbie, “is that it can make you feel so... so alive. Those moments, right before you make your choice, you can feel your heart thumping hard in your chest. The adrenaline rushes around you. You are in the moment. It's a real high.”

“Why don't you go gamble then? Play russian roulette. You don't need me.” John quietly pulled the lock up on his door. His hand gripped the handle. The next time they slowed down...

“Stakes,” said the cabbie. “The bigger the stakes, the bigger the thrill. It's why the big game hunters go after lions and bears instead of sweet little bunnies. So they can get that alive feeling. Just putting a gun to my own head would be boring.”

“That alive feeling won't last long when you die.”

The cabbie smiled in the mirror at him. “If I die. Doesn't matter to me. Quality of life over quantity I say.”

They stopped at a stop light. _Now!_ John thought tightening his hand on the latch and hearing the door release. The door opened just as the car came to a halt.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” said the cabbie. John glanced his direction. The man had turned in his seat and was pointing something at his face. It was very dark, but John recognised the sleek lines of a Browning glinting in the dim streetlight. “Pull the door shut. Wouldn't want you falling out by accident. You might get run over. Or maybe you'll get shot. Hard to tell.”

John stared at the gun. Then pulled the door shut. It clicked.

“Now that wasn't nice,” said the cabbie sitting forward. “Here I am taking the time to explain things to you and you plan on walking out on me. Do it again and I'll have to find someone else to play my game. Like maybe your grieving girlfriend. Or your mother. Or your sister.”

John swallowed. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“That's for the best, I think.”

The light changed. John, staring at the back of the cabbie's cap had a realisation. “You are already dying, aren't you?”

“You're a smart one,” said the cabbie admiringly. “How'd you figure that one out?”

“You don't care if you live or die. You don't think you have quantity of life so it's no sacrifice risking it. What's killing you? Cancer?”

“Inoperable brain aneurysm,” he replied. “I could go at any moment.”

“Or you could have years.”

“Years of knowing I could go at any moment. Years of not being able to plan. You see I already am playing this game, but it's just not as exciting to play it alone.”

“What's in this for me? What's to stop me from just risking your bullets instead?”

“The chance to kill me, Mister. Oh yes. It wouldn't be a game if there weren’t a way for you to win. You'll get your chance. Be patient.”

John's phone rang. The cabbie abruptly stopped the car in the middle of the street and pointed the gun at him.

“It's not me,” John said, raising his hands.

“Toss it forward or the game ends right here with a bullet in your brain. You lose, guaranteed.”

Reluctantly John pulled out the phone and tossed it into the front seat. The cabbie ducked down. John considered running but there was no cover on this barren street. The buildings were all locked up for the night. The street corner was too far away. He would be a sitting duck.

The ringing stopped. The cabbie sat up again. “I turned it off. We don't want any interruptions now do we?”

John swallowed.

The car moved forward again. This time they travelled in silence until they reached the parking lot of a nursing school. The windows of the old buildings were dimly lit, but John didn't see any activity going on in side. He swallowed.

The cabbie opened his door for him. “Come along, Mister. Game's going on inside. Step lively. Mr. Sherlock Holmes will have another corpse to examine come morning.

“Question is, will it be yours? Or mine?” He winked and his smile nearly glowed.

* * *

  
“So,” said Greg as they tore down the streets. “Who is this guy anyway? Two days ago Mycroft was talking about you moving in next door, now you are shacked up with someone neither of us have ever heard of. Did you just pick him up off the street? Or have you been planning this for a while?”

“I picked him up off the street,” said Sherlock, tightly.

“And you don't trust him out of your sight for a minute.”

“Not anymore, I don't.” Sherlock shifted his eyes between the display on his phone and the street.

“He isn't a thrall is he?” said Greg softly.

“No. If he were I wouldn't have to track him using this.” He waved his phone.

“That's not what I meant,” said Greg. “I mean... he's like me, isn't he?”

Sherlock looked at him. “And if he is?” Inwardly he steeled himself for the inevitable teasing. All those years of making fun of Mycroft, sneering at his relationship with Greg, pitying them. And now it was like a lightbulb had turned on in his own mind. The world had turned sideways and he _understood_ what it was all about.

And he hated it. It was biology, low, crass, emotional, intellect killing biology. It had nothing to do with purity of logic, nor of the richness of experience. It was nothing more than rampant hormones: the Vampire side hijacking his mind in order to spread itself to a new generation. It had taken Sherlock decades to control his lust, centuries to control his hunger, and now just as he had everything perfect and in control, this new _complication_ had come along and set him right back to the beginning.

Even this case, this perfect serial killing, paled compared to his need to _Get. John. Back_. With John, everything felt normal. Without John, he simply couldn't care about anything else.

 _Laugh at me,_ he thought. _Go ahead. After what I've done to you, I deserve it._

But Greg didn't laugh. “I think you should let me talk to him. I know I wished I had someone like me to talk to when Mycroft found me. I almost let him die, I was so freaked out.”

Sherlock shuddered. The notion that John might reject him was the single most terrifying thought he'd had since the night his sire had made him. _I'm terrible with people. And his first night with me has lead to him being kidnapped twice. How can he not hate me for that?_.

“Your experience with Mycroft was considerably tamer than this,” said Sherlock gloomily.

“Well, true. But John isn't me either. He's your mate, therefore he must be compatible.”

“Compatible with me, yes. But maybe not with my way of life.”

“You'd be surprised,” said Greg. “I mean, your brother's way of life isn't exactly roses, but I tolerate it fine. I might not like his creepy stalker side, and as an officer, it makes my fillings ache to see him act above the law, but he's got a lot more going for him than that. John will figure that out about you, too.”

“When Mycroft met you,” Sherlock said, tensely, “He was planning on creating an army of vampires and taking over the world. I'm _not_ exaggerating. He'd been contemplating it for nearly three centuries. Now he's blissfully content with raising your daughters and making minor adjustments to the human political sphere. That's _your_ influence, Greg.

“What will John do to me? Will I stop investigating crimes? Will I give up everything I hold dear now, just to appease him? I don't want to change. I _like_ my life.”

Greg nodded. “Let's get him back safe before we worry about what he will and won't make you give up.” He pulled up into a parking spot next to an empty cab. “We are here. Can your vampire senses tell me where they've gone?”

There were two identical buildings in front of them. John's smell, overwhelmingly strong, wafted equally between them. Oh that smell. If anything it was more enticing than ever. It was drenched with adrenaline, and stress, and vitality. Utterly delicious. Sherlock's teeth had never fully retracted, and now they were back at full extension again and his mouth was filled with saliva.

But that's not what Sherlock needed to be thinking about now. He had different prey to hunt. John's smell was too broad and too unfocused for Sherlock to get a directional feel from it, but the murderer's smell, while weaker, left a much more finely tuned trail.

“There,” said Sherlock stepping out. Sherlock ran ahead, slipping into the building with all his hunting instincts at full. He was faster, smarter, stronger, more focused than any human could be. The murderer wouldn't know what hit it.

Sherlock dashed through the hall, careful to keep his footsteps light and soundless. Between his delay in noticing John was gone and the further delay in finding where he'd gone to, he was at least five minutes behind them. Five minutes was a very long time. If John had taken already swallowed the pill, all the hunting instincts in the world would mean nothing.

Please, John. Hold on.

  


* * *

The cabbie prodded John through the halls of the nursing school, tapping the muzzle of the gun against spine every time he hesitated. The building was eerily quiet, the fluorescent lights were half off, creating a grey, unreal looking world. There was no sign of janitors, or teachers, or students. He had no doubt the place was completely cleared out.

John thought and thought. He didn't like the way things were adding up. He was going to have to do something soon. The one thing he wouldn't do was play whatever game his kidnapper had in mind.

“It's too bad you aren't Sherlock,” the cabbie said wistfully. “I was rather looking forward to this being more of a contest.”

“You think I'm going to lose your game.”

“Oh,” he said offhandedly. “Of course you are. You aren't bad in the smarts department. But I'm brilliant. Bet I'm smarter than Sherlock Holmes myself.” John doubted it. “No worries though. I've more pills. I can wait for tomorrow.”

“You said you'd give me a chance,” said John. “But now you say I'm going to die. Which is it?”

“Both. I'll give you a chance – but it won't be a fair one. Still, there's always the chance you'll get lucky. We won't know until we know. --Through there.”

They entered one of the classrooms on the second floor. Long tables stretched out nearly the length of the room. Medical diagrams were fixed on the walls. It reminded John a bit of his own medical school days.

John heard the door shutting behind him. Without thinking he ducked and grabbed the nearest thing to hand, which turned out to be a medical encyclopaedia left on the edge of the nearest table. He turned and swung, the book colliding with the cabbie's hip and knocking him back against the door. The man was stunned for a second.

John didn't pause to savour his victory. With practiced moves, he twisted the Browning in the cabbie's hand and pulled it out of his grip. He then turned it and pointed it straight at the man's head.

The cabbie froze, then lifted his hands to either side of his head in surrender.

And then laughed.

John knew why.

The gun was far too light, it weighed only a fraction of what it should have. The feel of it was all wrong. John looked down. Where the clip should have been, it was instead solid. It was a theatre prop. He tossed the thing aside, disgusted that he'd been fooled for so long.

The cabbie let out an uproarious bray and lowered his hands. “Oh that's rich. The look on your face right now.”

“It's a fake.”

“Of course, it's a fake. How would a cabbie like me get a gun like that in London? If you 'd been Sherlock you'd have realised that back in the car.”

“I'm going,” said John, he took a step towards the door.

The cabbie looked at him, suddenly sober. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

The next moment an echoing crack rang in John's ear and he saw a chunk of wood fly off the corner of the credenza next to the door. A red dot wavered near the door, then vanished. John slowly turned around and saw the hole in the window, and the red dot on his chest.

“I forgot to tell you, just for you – or I should say, just for Mr. Holmes – I have a partner. His gun is real.”

John's heart thumped. He raised his hands. Sniper rifle. Goddamn it.

“Let's play our game, now, shall we?” The cabbie motioned to the tables. “Have a seat.”

John sat down, his eyes towards the broken window. The cabbie calmly took a seat on the opposite side of the table, careful not to put himself between John and the window.

“The rules to the game are simple.” The cabbie pulled out two vials of identical looking pills. “Two pills. You choose which of us takes which pill. We swallow them simultaneously. If you chose right, you get to live, I'll die, and the show ends. If you chose wrong, then you'll die, I'll live, and tomorrow I'll be playing this game with the _real_ consulting detective.” The smile slipped off his lips.

“It's fifty-fifty chance,” said John hollowly.

“Ah, that's the first real mistake you've made since I picked you up,” said the cabbie. “It's not chance at all. I've played this game four times and won. That's not me being lucky. That's me being smart.” The cabbie put the vials on the table between them, he pushed one towards John. “That's the only hint you get. Would I put the poison in front of you, or in front of me? Which do I think you'll think I'd do.”

John stared at the pills. The sniper's site was drifting around the table. “They are both poisoned,” he said with certainty.

The cabbie pulled back his head. “Do I look dead to you?”

“I've watched the Princess Bride. I know how this works.”

“Ah, I've watched that movie, too. Wrong again! Unlike iocane powder, this poison's real, it's brand new, and it's always fatal. There's no antidote. It's not even one of those nice poisons that puts you to sleep. One of us is going to die in excruciating pain. Choose!”

Maybe Sherlock would be able to figure it out and make this less of a fifty-fifty chance, but John couldn't. He grabbed one vial at random. The cabbie kept his expression neutral. “Is that it?”

John nodded.

“Well then. It's time to play. Don't you feel alive right now?”

John felt sick. He popped the cap off the vial, looking for traces of _anything_ to signal that it wasn't the same as the other victims had chosen. There was no sign of anything, not even fingerprints on it. The cabbie pulled off his glove and popped the second vial and shook out a pill into his hand.

“Are you ready?” The cabbie asked.

John shook his head.

“I'll give you a few more seconds to savour it.”

John stared hatefully at his eyes.

“Now it's time, take your pill!” The cabbie lifted the pill to his lips and waited for John to do the same.

The door burst open at John's back. Surprised at the sound, John flung the pill wildly off across the room. He dropped instinctively out of the way, tipping his chair over and falling heavily to the floor below the table, hopefully out of the sniper's sights.

Simultaneously a second bullet smashed through the window glass. John looked up to see Sherlock stagger momentarily backwards. Then he leaped over the table and crashed into the cabbie. Everything was noise and confusion.

The cavalry had arrived.

  


* * *

Sherlock heard voices. John's, low. The murderer's, louder and more assured. The meaning of their words skipped passed his consciousness, thrown out as irrelevant. _John was still alive!_ It wasn't too late.

He narrowed his sense of smell to the murderer, forcefully tuning out John's louder fragrance. The cabbie was leaving a much more distinct trail, straight down the hall and up the stairs in the middle. Under the neutral scents of tweed and cotton and leather, shaving cream and soap, Sherlock smelled a male, excited and somewhat sexually aroused by the situation. Sherlock contained his jealousy only barely. Under those odours was a more wretched scent of vitality gone thin and bitter. Though the man didn't smell ill, his soul was shutting down in preparation for death. He'd given up on life.

Sherlock reached the classroom just as he heard the Cabbie urge John to take his pill. Wasting no time he shouldered the door open and dashed inside.

The bullet took him by surprise. It felt hot and sharp, tearing a line through his chest, ripping a lung before exiting out his back. The pressure of it made him take a step back. Then fury sent him forward. He leaped the table and threw himself on a middle aged murderer. Scrambling to his feet again, he lifted the man up.

The man weighed nearly nothing. He trembled, fragile and small in Sherlock's arms as he shoved him up against the wall. Roughly – far more roughly than he would have with any of his thralls – Sherlock, tore the man's shirt away from his throat. He choked and his skin bruised. The fear in his eyes grew more exquisite.

_You hurt my John! You took my John!_

The cabbie stared with terror into Sherlock's eyes. “What _are_ you?” he asked.

Sherlock didn't bother to answer.  Instead he tore into the man's throat. Blood flooded his mouth – just as ugly and bitter and disgusting as he imagined it would be. His body revolted at the flavour. His stomach tightened and he couldn't stop himself from turning his head and spitting the awful stuff on the floor. The wound in his chest throbbed and he needed blood, but not this man's.

It didn't matter, the bite had the desired effect. The bond between them was intense and hard. The cabbie could no more resist Sherlock's will than he could resist the pull of gravity.

“Sherlock,” John cried out from under the chair. “What are --”

“Why John?” Sherlock growled, interrupting John. He set the man back on the floor and holding him pinned to the wall. “Why take him?”

“Wasn't supposed to be him. You,” the cabbie choked a bit. His shoulder was soaked with blood from his torn throat. He raised a hand to touch the bleeding skin. “Sherlock Holmes – I was supposed to take you.”

“Who ordered you to?”

“Muh-- my friend. My employer.”

“His name.”

“Moriarty – that's the only name I know. I never met him. Only a voice over the phone. Packages in the mail.”

“He gave you the pills.”

“Yes.”

“He told you how to kidnap people. Where to take them?”

“Yes.”

“Why? What does Moriarty want? What's his message. Why this whole elaborate set up.” Sherlock let go of the cabbie. He wasn't going to get away. If he ran, Sherlock could grab him back, like a cat pouncing on a wounded mouse.

The cabbie staggered away, out of arm reach, holding his throat. His eyes were wide, clearly fighting the glamour but unable to. “He wanted _you_ to --”

Then suddenly his head flopped to the side and the top of his skull exploded. A third hole appeared in the window.

“NO!” Sherlock yelled, but the damage was done. The man's life had been snuffed out like a candle. The bond between them snapped hard. His vampiric senses no longer saw him as a person.

A forth bullet rang out, just narrowly missing Sherlock's shoulder. He stepped back, putting the wall between himself and the shooter.

John peeked out from under the table. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine. You didn't take the pill, did you?”

“No, thank god.”

The door opened again and Greg Lestrade stepped in. “I heard--”

“Get down!” John and Sherlock simultaneously shouted. Greg froze. A bullet tore through the window again, but it was high, hitting the wall near the ceiling. Greg dropped to the ground and crawled for cover.

“We're pinned,” John said. “Until he runs out of ammo.”

They each stayed where they were. Sherlock felt the burn of his wound slowly closing. In it's wake, tremendous hunger reared up. It took his entire will not to throw himself on John and nearly the same amount again not to attack Greg.

The silence stretched the better part of thirty seconds.

“So,” said John surprisingly casually. “You are a vampire. The full on, tear a man's throat out kind of vampire.”

“I don't usually make so much mess.”

“Bullet's can't kill you.”

“They are less effective than they are against mortals but if that sniper gets me in the head, I'll be just as dead as that cabbie.”

“Mortals,” John repeated. His voice sounded high and a bit hysterical.

“John. It's okay,” said Greg. “He's not going to hurt you.”

“Of course not. He's just a late night show monster. Why should I be afraid of that?” John was definitely hysterical now.

“Greg is right, I won't hurt you. Ever,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. The pressure to feed was threatening to make him a liar. “And I'll get you through this, just hold tight.”

He was healing, despite his recent starvation, but there wasn't a lot of reserves.

“You need my blood,” John stated.

 _Oh god._ Sherlock hissed. _Don't tempt me! My willpower's not that strong._

“You do, don't you? That bullet might not have hit your head but it still hurt you.” John sounded sober.

“Yes. May I?” It came out as a whine, but he couldn't help it. Every fibre of his being yearned for this. His arguments were falling apart. Even though it meant the end of the identity he'd built over the last five – no make that 200 years. Even yet, he still hoped John would agree.

John sucked in a breath. “Will it kill me?” 

“No! Not at all! And it won't be as damaging as what I did to your kidnapper. I can feed from you and not even leave a mark when I finish.”

“Well then,” said John with a sigh. “Okay, I guess.”

It was all the permission Sherlock needed. Before John could change his mind, he'd crossed the floor to him. His speed was preternatural. With two lightning fast movements, he yanked John out from his his hiding spot and rolled him on his back on the floor. John jerked and stiffened, then began to struggle. Sherlock didn't take any offence to that. It was just his normal instincts kicking in to defend himself against something odd and foreign. Sherlock covered John, pinning him with his body. He felt so warm, so vital, so impossibly alive under him.

John let out a weak moan.

Sherlock's fingers cupped John's jaw, drawing it up and away, leaving the throat bent and exposed. Without another thought, Sherlock bit him, right though the cotton of his collar. John flinched in his arms, but then stilled stiffly. Blood flowed, rich and warm into his greedy mouth.

_Perfect. Utterly perfect. So delicious. So right._

Sherlock spat out the cloth and pulled the collar open with his hand. He was gentle, not like with the cabbie. There would be no bruises. Nothing but tooth marks to mar John's perfect skin, and even those would be temporary. His teeth sank into John's throat a second time and Sherlock breathed in his heady fragrance and felt his vitality swell between them.

 _Yes._ John's body relaxed beneath him. The vitality flowed swifter. Much quicker than Sherlock would have expected, he felt his depleted reserves fill. At last, he could think of something other than the immediate relief from starvation and injury. The curiously empty quality of the feeding shifted from the back of his mind to the front.

Something wasn't quite right. Sherlock felt filled, but not fulfilled, as if there was something vital missing to this.

 _The bond!_ How had he forgotten to make a bond? Instinctively he threw out a line of connection between them, expecting it to solidify and grow much the way it always did with those he fed on.

But it didn't catch. It seemed to _bounce off_ of John.

No this wasn't right at _all_. This was bloody _impossible!_ Sherlock's teeth abruptly retracted. He pulled his lips away, taking one last swallow and stared at the man beneath him. He'd given his body and his blood, but he hadn't actually surrendered. There was no merging between them. _Wrong!_

“That felt really odd,” John murmured under him. “Are you better?”

Sherlock jerked backwards. He sat on his heels away from John, but out of the sniper's sites. His body felt infinitely better, but emotionally he was worse. Dread clutched his middle, making him faintly nauseated.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. The bond between vampire and mate was the strongest in existence, but Sherlock felt nothing. No thoughts. No feelings. No connection. Not even the fleeting one sided bond that came between vampire and prey. It was as if an invisible wall lay between them and no amount of battering would break it.

John touched the side of his throat and began putting pressure on the wound. “I thought you said this wouldn't leave a mark.”

Of course! Sherlock gasped with relief. The blood had to flow both ways! Even making a thrall demanded that much. Sherlock was so far off his game he was making simple mistakes.

Without thinking, Sherlock tore open a vein on his wrist. “You have to drink.” 

John batted the wrist away. “I don't think so, yuck.”

“No, you have to. It will heal you. And it's necessary – vitally necessary. Don't you want to?” Sherlock frowned. He'd never had a thrall turn down his blood. They'd all latched on as if instinctively drawn to it.

John turned his head away and pushed himself into a sitting position, mindful of the window at his back. “I don't want to become a vampire, Sherlock. Look, it's not so bad. You didn't nick anything important. I just need a plaster.”

“I can't turn you into a vampire,” said Sherlock, impatiently. A thrill of fear overrode his shock. This had to work. It had to! “Drink, or I'll have to force it into you.”

John glared. “Is that how you treat someone who does you a favour?”

“Only a truly foolhardy one. Please.”

John sighed. “Very well.” Sherlock bit his wrist again and pressed it between John's lips. John obediently opened his mouth, and his tongue darted out for a tentative lick. He tasted the blood, then winced and wrinkled his face up.

“More,” urged Sherlock, attempting again to make that bond between them. John gave the wound a quick suck, then turned his head again, as if revolted. The wound on John's throat closed and healed, proving that the blood had been ingested, but the bond withered without connecting.

“Blech,” said John, gagging. “My neck doesn't sting anymore, so I guess it worked, but my God, that's nasty stuff you've got running through your veins.”

This shouldn't be happening. John should love the taste of his blood. All his thralls had enjoyed receiving it.

Oh god, what was wrong with John? Was he defective? Or was it himself? Had all those years of abstinence and junk blood ruined him somehow?

The biological imperative was in place. Sherlock already felt the timer counting down. But he had no idea how to consummate their bonding, and he had no idea how to turn the hands of time back and untrigger himself. He was stuck in limbo, caught between two stages of the vampire life cycle: the infertile novice and mature sire.

He was going to die.

  



	4. Chapter four

Greg huddled behind a table in the corner of the classroom. He couldn't see the window and hoped that meant the sniper couldn't see him. He _could_ see the divot above the door where the last bullet had ended up. Plaster was chipped and a round hole punched deeply in.

This was new. There hadn't been any trace of gunfire at the other scenes.

Sherlock had mentioned that the crimes were orchestrated by two people, with two very different agendas. This lined up with muddled perp profile the MET psychologist had come up with. Evidently the poison M.O. had gone the way of the cabbie. High powered rifles seemed to be the new fashion. _Just bloody fantastic._ Greg clutched reflexively at his ASP, but there really wasn't much he could do with a billy stick in this situation.

He should be on his mobile right now, calling his people in to secure the scene and get the shooter. But he couldn't. Thanks to Sherlock, it had gotten too complicated.

Of all the times to mate-bond.

Christ, what should he _do?_ It would be _really bad_ for his team to come flying through that door while Sherlock lay unselfconsciously on top of his flatmate, dining gustily on the man's throat. Maybe at first glance it would just appear to be just an embarrassingly intense public display of affection. _That’s some hickey._ But second glance looked like cannibalism ala the Night of the Living Dead, and that would _not_ go over with a team already primed and armed for a gunman. If his team walked in on this, bullets were going to fly… and Mycroft would _never_ forgive him for getting his brother killed.

Sherlock let out a low, rumbling moan of obscene pleasure. _Oh, God,_ Greg groaned with vicarious embarrassment. _Get a room, guys. Please!_

He tried not to watch. He remembered rather too well the first time Mycroft had fed on him. Thank God, they'd been alone in his flat. It had been awfully shameless and protracted. They’d hardly come up for air for _hours._ As happy as Greg was that Sherlock had finally found his life partner, he really hoped that they could hold off on consummating their bond until the crisis was over. The last thing Greg wanted was to be forced at gunpoint to watch his brother-in-law shag the hell out of some guy. If Sherlock started taking off his clothes, Greg was going to risk a run for the door.

But after only a minute, Sherlock sat back on his heels. Greg risked another glance. To his surprise, everyone's clothes were in place and Sherlock's face was painted with horror. John's neck was still bleeding sluggishly from the puncture wounds. Greg couldn't help being fascinated by that. He'd been fed on regularly, of course, but it was one thing to experience the bite and all it's intense emotional and physical pleasure, and another to see how it looked from the outside. It looked rather painful.

Something was off. John didn't look blissed out. He simply looked remarkably calm and patient, like a man whose done some curious but not terribly pleasant duty and now awaited the results. When Sherlock offered his blood, John's graphic disgust was completely off kilter.

This was all wrong. Greg had never felt any revulsion towards drinking Mycroft's blood. In fact he found it pleasantly exhilarating. And thank god for that, since he must have ingested gallons of it over the years. During sex the blood flowed between them freely, but even between Mycroft opened his veins on a very regular basis. He insisted Greg take a mouthful before leaving for work, to fortify him against danger and the long hours. It was better than coffee and more intimate than a kiss. 

 _Poor guy,_ thought Greg. _If he hates this, being a mate is going to be a serious chore._

Sherlock's withdrew his arm from John's lips with a look that could only be described as despair.

Greg tensed. He suddenly realised what was happening. Relief spread through him, warm and heady. This was a _mate_ thing. The one advantage his kind had over vampires was the ability to deny them connection. John was simply too unprepared for this. He was instinctively defending himself the only way his body knew how. Greg remembered the feeling himself.

“Sherlock, it's okay, he just doesn't --”

The door to the classroom opened and all three of them jumped. Greg snatched the ASP from it's holster and extended it with a flick of his wrist. Sherlock moved faster, putting his body between the door and John. His teeth were extended and his expression feral.

Then, anticlimactically, Mycroft sauntered in, leaning on his umbrella and looking quite, _quite_ pissed off. _The sniper!_ Greg almost called out a warning to him, but then realised that if the gunman was going to shoot, he would have already. He relaxed.

The crisis was over.

Sherlock stood up and glared. “Oh, so you decided to visit.”

“Lucky thing for everyone I did,” said Mycroft in his chilliest voice. Greg hissed, which earned him a brief appraising look from his spouse.

“You took out the sniper, I suppose,” said Sherlock, brushing down the wrinkles in his bloodstained clothes. “That's awfully inconvenient. I don't suppose it even occurred to you to question him first?”

“I'm afraid I was too busy preventing him from putting a bullet in my mate's head.” He gave Greg a longer glance this time. His eyes bored in.

Greg shuddered. That was a “we need to talk” look if ever he'd seen one. _I'm the dog house now._ The one thing that Mycroft had absolutely no humour about was Greg's safety. If he had his druthers, Greg would never leave his office in the MET.

Mycroft had a point. Greg shouldn't have gone rushing into an unsecured crime scene. In retrospect it'd been stupid. After all, what could he have done for John that Sherlock with his vampiric powers and senses couldn't? He'd risked his life _and_ Mycroft’s for nothing.

“Does the sniper have a head left?” Sherlock asked, as if mildly curious. “Or did you tear it off. How much of a mess did you leave?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Mycroft. “His head is perfectly fine. His neck is broken in three places, however. I've already called my people to dispose of him. That site will be clean in five minutes. Which is more than I can say for this place,” he looked over at the cabbie's body. “I'll have to send for a second team, I see.”

“I don't suppose you can leave something for my people to investigate.” Greg wasn't hopeful.

Oh, those eyes were freezing cold. “Best not with that obvious vampire bite Sherlock has left on the corpse.”

Greg deflated. Why had he caved and brought Sherlock in? If he'd just kept the vampires out... but even that was selfish. If John hadn't been kidnapped tonight, the cabbie would have simply victimised someone without a vampire looking after his welfare. _Give it up, Greg,_ he thought bitterly to himself. _This one just never was going to feather your cap._

Nearly three weeks he'd devoted to this crime spree. Late nights. Long days. Interviews. Press conferences. Worries. It physically hurt that he was not going get any credit for it. Worse, he was going on record as the guy who fell flat. But Mycroft was right, damn it. This had turned into a vampire matter, and _their_ laws took precedent. It wasn't just Mycroft and Sherlock at risk if the public had proof of vampires. Greg, as a mate, would doubtless be looked on with equal horror. John, too. Poor guy. He didn't even know what he'd got himself into.

“Okay,” he said, tiredly. “My people won't be happy, but I'll see this goes cold. At least there won't be any more 'suicides'.”

“Excellent,” said Mycroft and the chill came off a bit. Greg could see Mycroft's normally genial demeanour. Getting his way always put him in a good mood.

But God, Greg couldn't hang out here anymore. “Alright.” He stood up and folded down his ASP. “This is a vampire matter, so you two do your thing. I'm going to take John home.” He walked over to John and helped him to his feet. “I think it's been a long enough night for both of us.”

John rubbed his throat reflectively and nodded, grateful for an exit.

“Gregory,” said Mycroft. “Don't go.” The longing on his face was practically pornographic. _Seriously, Mycroft, you’re turned on by this?_ Greg was confused for half a second before remembering Sherlock's earlier admonishment about his smell. _Oh, for Christ's sake. Vampires – always thinking with their teeth._

“Later. I promise.”

Mycroft frowned. “At least stay close. I came so very near to losing you tonight. I'll feel better if I can keep my eye on you.”

“I can't stay and watch you destroy evidence, Mycroft,” said Greg, putting his foot down. “It goes against my instincts. And I know I'll be a distraction for you. I'll meet you at home when you are done.”

“You better,” said Mycroft, the chill had returned to his voice.

_Yep. Doghouse._

As they passed Sherlock, Greg hesitated and put his hand on his shoulder. “It'll be fine.”

Sherlock's answering look was positively withering. “Easy for you to say.”

  


* * *

John fingered his collar. The blood that had soaked in had stiffened the fabric, and he could smell a faint musty odour that seemed to linger about. It was hard not to remember the feel of Sherlock's mouth on his skin. His weight, the feel of his breath against John's face. The incredible speed and strength.

Letting Sherlock feed on him had been terrifying. There had been the pain of the bite of course (John was thankful that Sherlock's fangs were sharper than human teeth) but that wasn't too bad. The scary part was the helplessness. Even though he'd agreed to let Sherlock drink his blood, he hadn't wholly bargained on how out of control he'd feel. Once Sherlock had climbed on him, he'd been helpless to get away. He remembered how caged he felt to be pressed to the floor by those gangly limbs. It still made him shudder to think that how easily Sherlock could overpower him, take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and how there wasn't a bloody thing John could do about it.

It made every sense that it'd scare him. It was rational. After all, his freedom had been taken away by two other men that day. The last thing he should want was to have a third pin him down and take something vital from him. He should damn well be traumatised by all of it.

So why did part of him find being bitten incredibly appealing? That was what made no bloody sense. Worse, why did he _crave_ it? Why was he actually _missing_ it. Christ, he _was_ missing it! He was positively disappointed that Sherlock hadn't fed on him more – that he hadn't demanded other things as well.

Nothing about having Sherlock's teeth in his neck had been remotely erotic, and yet John couldn't stop thinking of those arms clamped hard around him, positioning him, taking him in ways that had nothing to do with blood or feeding. That bite hurt. The blood he'd drank tasted awful. At the time, all he wanted was for it to end. But now that it had ended and Sherlock was safely away, the memory of it bloody _turned him on_.

Sick. That's what it was. Sick.

And this wasn't the sort of thing he needed to be thinking about with Lestrade two steps away watching his every expression like a hawk. John felt his face begin to blush.

Lestrade lead him in silence out of the building and to a marked patrol vehicle. He drew out his keys and unlocked the door. “Long night,” he said causally, breaking the silence, as they both settled into their seats.

“Oh, I don't know,” John replied with false nonchalance. “Checking out a new flat, two kidnappings, and a couple of murders. Sounds like Tuesday to me.” To show he wasn't too upset he gave Lestrade a thin smile.

“It's Friday, but yeah, I hear you,” Lestrade strapped himself in. “Also you neglected to mention vampires. That's gotta be pretty big.”

“Not to you, apparently,” said John.

“Well, after being married to one for five years, the shock wears off.”

John noticed the rather elaborate and expensive wedding ring on his left hand. Lestrade practically oozed 'straight, lawful and conventional.' It was hard enough to picture him marrying another man – much less one that was a persian cat away from being a Bond villain. _How?_ his mind grappled. _How does that even fit?_ Then he felt a bit ashamed. He'd been through this awkward conversation with Harry and questioning other people's sexuality hadn't gotten any less insulting over time.

“So … you and Mycroft...”

“Yep,” said Lestrade. It was patient tone of a man who was used to people being incredulous.

“Sorry,” said John hastily. “I'm fine with it by the way. My sisters married to another woman – well was married. Not so much anymore. Sorry. I just honestly didn't see that coming,” he ended lamely, then kicked himself for it.

“Neither did I,” said Greg with an odd laugh. “But that's the way it goes with vampires. For all they live for centuries, they go from zero to commitment awfully quick. Anyway, you'll get used to it soon enough. You'll have to.”

“I don't think so,” said John firmly, glad to move the topic. “I think I'm done with vampires.”

Lestrade looked at him strangely. “That's going to be a bit inconvenient, what with having Sherlock as a flatmate.”

“Mmm,” said John. His stomach tensed. “It would, I imagine. If I were Sherlock's flatmate.” He looked at the key dangling out of the ignition, still unturned. Abruptly, all he wanted was to get back to his hotel room. “Can you give me a lift to South Kington or not? I keep trying to get there, and it keeps not happening.”

“Are you serious? You've decided not to be his flatmate?” Lestrade sounded alarmed. He made no move to start the car.

John sighed. Lestrade clearly wanted to have a Conversation, with a capital C, and obviously John wasn't going anywhere until it happened. But what was there to say? _You people are insane? This was the single most terrifying night of my life, and that includes the day I got shot. I promise not to tell anyone, just don't kill me?_ Any sane person would know when to run, and while John might be a card or two shy of a full deck, he still had an ounce or two of self-preservation.

Lestrade looked at him expectantly, so John tried to be diplomatic. “Sherlock is an amazing man, vampire, whatever, but I don't think I can keep up with him. He needs someone... else. Someone smarter, with no limp and maybe a death wish.”

Lestrade laughed ironically. “You are wrong,” he said. “But I don't expect you to understand that yet.” He finally turned the key. “Okay, South Kingston?”

“Please,” said John, relieved he'd answered the question correctly enough.

Lestrade seemed thoughtful as he pulled the car out onto the street and headed towards John's hotel. His eyes kept flickering speculatively over at him, then darting back, as if ashamed at a thought. His throat tensed and relaxed as if he were trying to say something, then deciding against it at the last moment.

John felt his fists balling. Now that the fear was tapering off, anger was coming in hard in it's wake. He knew when people were keeping things from him.

“Oh come on,” John said after a moment. “Don't you dick me around, too. Go ahead. Clearly you want to tell me something. What the hell is going on? I feel like I'm the butt of some joke.”

“I'm trying to come up with a way to explain what's going on that won't freak you out,” said Lestrade. “And it's a bit tough, to be honest.”

“Well when you put it like that,” said John, bitterly. “Forget it. I don't want to know.”

But Lestrade launched in anyway. “Living with a vampire has its upsides. Lots of them actually. Since I hooked up with Mycroft, I feel more like twenty than forty. I haven't caught so much as a sniffle. If I dyed my hair, I could pass for someone half my age.”

John eyed the DI in the dim light. It was true that, aside from the silver hair which could be passed off as premature greying, he did appear more youthful and fit than his attitude and bearing suggested.

“So,” said John. “Is that why you married a vampire? For the fountain of youth.” John winced the moment the words were out. So much for diplomacy. “--Don't answer, I'm sorry,” he apologised. “My foot seems stuck in my mouth tonight.”

But Lestrade didn't seem offended. “It's a fair question. And you deserve honest answers. No. I didn't marry him for that. I didn't even know it would have that effect when he and I committed to each other. Frankly, I hardly knew him at all. We'd spent less time together than you've already spent with Sherlock.”

John stared, then shook his head. “I --” he stopped himself, pursed his lips and frowned, trying to find the right words. “How --- how do marry a man you don't know? How do you marry someone like... that?”

“It wasn't really a choice. Vampire courtship isn't anything like what we humans do with each other. It all takes place on the soul level. There's no dating, no get-to-know you, no shopping around. You are walking around one day, minding your own business and wham!” he hit the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “You lock eyes. And that's it.”

“Love at first sight?” John asked, sceptically.

“I wish, but no. It would be a whole lot easier if it just made you stupid for each other. It's a lot more subtle than that. On our side at least – the mate side – it's more like a vague feeling of being incomplete. Like having a hole that nothing fills. A hunger. Until you meet your vampire. Love comes in later, after you've bonded. But the decision to bond, that comes sober.”

John swallowed. This discussion was making him feel oddly nervous.

“And I'll tell you,” Lestrade went on, “At least for me, the timing was dreadfully inconvenient I was _married_ when I met Mycroft. At least you are single.”

John's heart skipped. “What does it matter if I'm single,” he said. “You don't mean that I'm – I've locked eyes with Sherlock, do you? No... that's impossible. That -- I just met him!”

“So you are saying you don't feel any emptiness or hunger in you?”

“I only agreed to be his flatmate. I'm not agreeing to be his _mate_ mate. He's just going to have to find someone else.”

“He _can't_ ,” said Lestrade. “You've met. He _has_ to have you.”

“No one has to have me,” said John firmly. “I'm not a slave, I've got choice!”

“Yes, you do, but he doesn't. Either you bond with him or he ...”

“He?”

“Dies.”

What the fu — _what?_ “You. Are. Kidding.”

“Not at all,” Lestrade looked deadly serious. “Do I look like a man who'd break his vows to his wife and commit to a man he hardly knew for frivolous reasons? I don't regret the decision for an instant, I love Mycroft, but there are times, oh God, yes, when I wish I'd been given more time to make it.”

“Are you saying we're like _ferrets?_ Mate or die? Have you any idea how preposterous that sounds?”

“I know exactly what it sounds like,” said Lestrade. “I've been through this, too, you know. And I wasn't any more thrilled about it then than you are now. In fact, I protested so hard and long I damn near killed Mycroft.”

“What happens to me if I don't do this?”

“Nothing,” said Lestrade. “Nothing at all. Save you go on knowing that you killed a man who would have made you very happy.”

“Christ,” said John. “This is emotional blackmail!”

“It’s vampire biology.”

They pulled up in front of John's hotel. Lestrade turned the engine off and the silence lay oppressively on John's shoulders.

“Why me?” he asked.

“Because you are his perfect balance. You have what he needs, he has what you need. Or so Sherlock once explained to me.” Lestrade opened the door and stood out on the wet pavement looking up. “This is where you've been living? This place is a dump.”

“It's what I can afford. And no, you can't convince me to go back to Baker street. Not until I've had some time to digest this.” 

“Do you mind if I follow you up?” said Lestrade, slamming his door shut and jogging around the bonnet. “This isn't really something to talk about in public.”

There was no one on the street. “You're parked illegally,” John mentioned.

“It's a patrol car, I'm not going to be ticketed,” Lestrade put a tentative hand on his back. “Listen, don't worry about the housekeeping. I've been a bachelor.”

John sighed. This night was never going to end. “It’s not that. Alright. Come on up. I think I have a beer.”

  


* * *

Back at the crime scene, Sherlock felt his shock wearing off. This night had been an unmitigated disaster. Both the case and his home life had blown up in his face. Simultaneously. Publicly. In front of Mycroft no less. He glanced at Mycroft’s face, expecting smugness, but the vampire was far too distracted to gloat.

“Shame,” said Mycroft, sniffing obviously at the air. His normally relaxed posture was tense and his brows had peaked with longing. “But I suppose Greg is right, this is not the place to get reacquainted, though lord knows he was making it difficult.” He turned to Sherlock with a pained smile. “They do make quite a distraction, don't they.”

“Unbearable,” remarked Sherlock dryly. The scent was fading, thank God. His teeth ached a little at the loss, but at least his mind was returning to sanity.

Greg normally had a powerfully evocative scent. Greg, neglected for days, then scared shitless by a sniper, and finally faced with his mate, pumped out vitality like a cat in heat. Even with the jarring not-quite-rightness of his fragrance and the fact that Mycroft was _right there_ , part of Sherlock had been tempted to sink his teeth into the man just to make it stop.

Especially since John (so delicious, so right, so warm in his arms) had managed to fang-block him. Even thinking about John sent shivers of frustration though him. Sherlock was unbearably hungry, even though he'd just fed. His insides felt cavernously empty. He needed to fill and be filled. To foist himself onto, into every part of John, bend him, invade him, taste and take him.

No scratch that. He was confusing himself. This wasn't about sex (such a pointless, crass act) or blood (he'd already tried that), this was about _bonding._ Without the bond, no amount of feeding or carnal congress was going to satisfy. He needed to merge with the man on a soul level. And he couldn't. It was like a wall of bulletproof glass between them, invisible but impenetrable.

What was he going to do?

 _Nothing for now,_ he decided. With John safe and removed, Sherlock could put him out of his mind. He could gain the mental space he needed to think clearly. He could concentrate on this case which lay so _almost_ solved in front of him. Greg Lestrade might have thrown his hands up in surrender on it, but Sherlock didn’t have to.  
There were things about this case that still bothered him.

Sherlock dropped to his knees and started rifling through the dead cab driver's clothes, heedless of the gore only inches away. Methodically he emptied each of the man's pockets until he let out a little cry of triumph and held up a pink and white pill.

“I knew it!”

“You knew what?” Mycroft looked up from his mobile and glanced at the pill in Sherlock's hand.

“That it was a cheat.” He stood up, holding the pill up to the light.

A hushed bustle in the hall signalled the arrival of Mycroft's cleaning crew. The door opened and two men and a woman in unlabelled disposable coveralls entered. Without a word they began laying out their equipment. One rolled out a body bag, while the other two hesitated over the body. Sherlock stepped away and let them remove it.

“Smell this,” he said, holding the pill up to Mycroft's nose. The poison's odour was faint but unmistakeable.

“Noxious,” remarked Mycroft. “So he chose wrongly this time.”

“Hardly. I found the pill in his pocket. The one he planned on eating fell to the floor during my attack. It's here.” Sherlock swooped down and picked up a small object that had rolled under the table. “See, a placebo. Potato starch.”

“Couldn’t that have been John's pill?” asked Mycroft.

“No, John threw his over …” Sherlock hunted in the bookshelves at the far side of the room and found it fallen behind one the books. “Here.” It smelled of poison as well.

“A dishonest game, indeed.”

“Worthless,” said Sherlock, angry. “To create such an elegant conundrum only to then undermine it with cowardice. Where is the honour? Where's the challenge? Where's the fun? Stage magic and misdirection. The poisoned pill goes in the pocket, and the replacement pill goes to his lips.” He opened each of the vials left on the table. Both reeked of poison.

“Rigged to fail,” he spat with disgust. “None of his victims had any chance. It's not clever at all! It's boring!” He crushed one of the vials in his hand. The bottom burst and pills went flying.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, gently. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over. He's dead. My cleaners and I will make sure this place _sparkles_ before the nursing students arrive in the morning. Don't you think you have better things to be doing right now?”

_No, don't talk about that._

“I need to see the other,” said Sherlock. “The one you killed. Tell me they haven't taken his body already.”

“It is doubtless loaded into the van.”

“Then why are we still here?” Sherlock raced out, leaping over the boxes of cleansers and tools to reach the door. “The poisoner's name is Moriarty.”

“Wonderful,” said Mycroft, following along, slower. “Chemist and sniper, that's an interesting combination of skills,” He called down the stairwell. Sherlock sped down the hall, banged the doors at the end open with the palms of his hands, then leaped the concrete steps to land on the blacktop. Greg's marked patrol car was gone. There were several unmarked vans in its place.

Interesting combination of skills? No, an _unlikely_ combination. Sherlock followed his nose to a black unmarked van. He picked the lock and threw it open, wanting and dreading what he'd find.

When Mycroft finally caught up to him, Sherlock was crouched in the back. He'd unzipped the body bag and was going through the man's pockets. There was no ID, and the mobile in his pocket was one of those disposable types, barely used. The history contained only two calls, both incoming from blocked numbers. _Fuck._ Sherlock slumped, defeated.

“What do you hope to accomplish here?” Mycroft asked patiently.

“He was no older than twenty,” said Sherlock, drearily. “Judging by his teeth, not even that.”

“Yes, I had noticed that detail when I wrung his neck.”

Frustration boiled up in Sherlock's veins. Goddamn it. So close.

“He's too young to have created that poison, Mycroft. He isn't Moriarty.” Sherlock slammed his fists against the side of the van. It rang out dully. “He can't be Moriarty.”

“Please, Sherlock. There are neighbours.”

“While we've been distracted with these two, the real genius behind this has escaped! I failed, Mycroft. And it's because I got distracted by a mate! Oh why did he have to show up _now?_ ” Sherlock hung his head.

“Sherlock, I think you've got it all wrong.”

“Wrong? Impossible! Look at his hands,” Sherlock raised one of the corpse's limp hands. “No trace of chemicals, no scarring, no burns. Trigger callous. Manual labor, here, here, here, but nothing here – where he is most likely to have come in contact with caustics if he did work in a lab. And the arm: look at the muscles – ah, tattoo.” He dropped the arm, which flopped loudly to the metal floor. “He's military.”

“Ex-military,” said Mycroft. “Dishonourable discharge, possibly a deserter. He's too young to have completed his contract.”

“He's a hired thug.” The genius, the _one_ interesting thing left about this case, was gone. Escaped. There were no more threads to follow. The message he'd been sending was still as opaque as ever. _Damn it!_ Not. Satisfying.

“Intellectually this is interesting,” said Mycroft in a way that suggested the opposite, “But it's awfully moot. The cab driver is dead. This crime spree is at an end.” Mycroft crossed his arms. “And you've misunderstood me. What I meant wasn't that you got the details wrong, but that you've got your priorities wrong. Your mate is waiting to be seduced. Why are you procrastinating with this?”

“I don't want a _mate_. I want _the game!_ ”said Sherlock tightly. “Nothing is better than this.”

“You tell yourself that, but five years ago nothing was better than drugs. And before that – for quite some time in fact, nothing was better than me. Our plans. We were going to make a name for ourselves. Do you remember those days?”

“Of course I do.”

“What happened, Sherlock?” Sherlock looked at Mycroft. He seemed to be lost in a sad memory.

“Nothing happened, Mycroft. Two centuries later, the world had changed, but we were just the same. Spinning our wheels. Playing political footsie with tiresome vampires and an endless number of humans. I got _bored_. You got boring. It never got any better.”

“I see.”

“Nothing but dull economics and the ponderous idiocy of statistical behaviour. Individuals – their motives, their wants, their desires, their moments of brilliance – they are what excite me.”

“Ah.”

“I'm not ready to give it up just because some ridiculous biological imperative has kicked in. I don't want childer.” Sherlock's could hear the petulance in his own voice. “I don’t want to be a respectable Sire, lording it up over other vampires.”

“But do you want John?” Mycroft probed gently.

“Of course, I want him!” Sherlock suddenly felt hemmed in. He leaped out of the back of the van, away from the smothering presence of Mycroft. He paced the length of the parking lot. Under the streetlight he turned on his heel to face Mycroft. He could still smell John – but he wasn't sure if it was the last traces of shed vitality clinging to the pavement or if it was his mind pulling tricks on him.

“Of course, I want him,” Sherlock repeated, miserably. “He's perfect. He's flattering. He's attractive. He's attentive. He's interesting. He smells delicious and he tastes even better. Of course, I want him. What I don't want is him telling me what I can and can't do. I don't want him to make me as boring and pedestrian as Lestrade has made you.”

“Have you considered for a minute that perhaps I _too_ was tired of megalomania? That I was ready for a fresh direction to my life? Greg was exactly what I needed to kick me out of my ruts.”

“And put you into new, deeper ones.” Sherlock jammed his fists into his pockets.

Mycroft sighed expressively. “This is me. Not you. Has John given you any inclination that he disapproves of your investigations?”

Sherlock shivered with guilt. “He was _nearly killed_ because of them, Mycroft. Nearly killed because of me. He's rejected me – and I can't blame him. _I'd_ reject me after tonight.”

“No, you wouldn't,” said Mycroft, with a smile. “You'd just love yourself more. And you are forgetting something.”

“What is that.”

“John's a soldier.” Mycroft walked up to him and put a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Your mate is stronger than you give him credit for.”

Sherlock felt a painful pang of hope. “Do you honestly think so?”

“I think hunting down criminals has been good for you,” said Mycroft. “And I trust John will recognise that as well. And I think now that Greg has had time to explain matters to him, perhaps he won't be as quick to push you away.”

“God, I hope so,” said Sherlock, crouching on his heels on the pavement. That smell – just the tiniest wisp of it, was still there.

“You know, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “In some ways we are very much alike, but in other ways we are different. Before Greg came into my life, I was out of control. I was utterly dreadful to you – threatening you, neglecting you. And not just you. I didn't really consider people to be... well, people. They were pawns to be used. Puzzle pieces on a board of a game that I was playing. If I wanted a person, I took her, or him and I used them however pleased me most. I was high – drunk on power, on sex, on human connections that I controlled. Greg gave me the part of myself that I was missing: The power to care about someone other than myself. I'm a father now, not just a sire, an actual father. And my girls are not pawns in a greater agenda – they are simply my children.”

“That's wonderful,” said Sherlock dryly. “But hardly relevant.”

“Exactly. Those were my problems – not yours. Your game is not the same as my game. You aren't encouraging people to commit crime so that you can solve it. You aren't overextended the way I was. If anything your weakness lies in the opposite direction: you've withdrawn so much from the world. You've turned everything into an intellectual pursuit. You've neglected the sensual part of yourself.”

“So you are saying, I need to get laid?”

“We'll you've needed _that_ for over a century. But no, I'm talking more fundamentally. Why do you think I tried so hard to get you to move back in with me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stood and frowned. “I figured it was because Lestrade was neglecting you so you decided to bug me instead.”

Mycroft shook his head. “His absence helped clear my head a bit, I'll grant you that. But it wasn't boredom that lead me to check on you.”

“Then what?”

“I realised you were fading, Sherlock. Really fading, the way the truly aged of our kind do. You had maybe another decade in you at most, if you kept up the way you were going.”

“Pshaw! I'm as sound as I've been for centuries.”

“You are a wraith. Except for your puzzles, you have nothing left in your life. You've always been miserly with feeding, but since you've moved out, you've become nearly anorexic. You hold even your thralls at arm's length. You haven't anyone who you could consider a friend.”

“I don't _want_ any friends.”

“You've crawled down your intellect to a place where nothing but curiosity has any meaning left to you, and even your discoveries don't really satisfy, do they? They divert you for an hour, a day, and then boredom overtakes you and you become self-destructive. Failure to thrive. That's how the old ones die, Sherlock. They simply stop caring enough to live.”

Sherlock didn't reply. There was more truth to what Mycroft said than he really cared to admit.

“Perhaps, your mate will give you someone to live for. At least that's my hope.”

Sherlock sniffed in a breath. This was all too close to the heart for him, and he wanted the conversation over. Mycroft paused, seeming to sense that.

“I've unfrozen your bank accounts, Sherlock. Now that you've a mate, there isn't any point on forcing you to live with me.”

“About time,” said Sherlock, latching onto that outrage.

“Yes. Time.” Mycroft pulled out his phone and speed dialled one of his minions. “Anthea! Have you traced where Greg and Dr. Watson went? Excellent. Then bring the car around.”

He turned to Sherlock. “Let's go collect our mates.”

* * *

  
The hotel room was neat, but depressingly empty. John had gotten rid of most of his possessions when he'd shipped out to Afghanistan. Since coming back he hadn't the money or the inclination to acquire much. The mirror across one wall was designed to make the tiny flat look larger, but the flat beige walls cast everything in a clinical light. This wasn't a home. It was a waiting room.

“I still don't know what I'm expected to do,” said John. “How do I prevent Sherlock from dying?”

“You relax – and trust him. Stop fighting him off.”

“But I'm _not_ fighting him off!” John took off his coat and hung it on the hook, then reached to take Lestrade’s, but he waved him off. “I’ve _never_ fought him.”

“You are rejecting him. And it's natural that you do so.”

“But I _haven't_ rejected him. I lay there and let him lie on top of me and feed on me. I drank his awful blood. I've come when he's asked. Except for a couple of times when he was being ridiculous, I've done everything he's wanted me to to the best of my abilities. How much more accommodating can I get? Do I have to be a complete doormat to him?”

“It's not about being a doormat. It's not about obeying orders. I don't do what Mycroft tells me to most of the time. It's not about anything physical. It's about letting go and not guarding your innermost self from him.”

 _What the hell does that mean?_ John thought. He sighed. “I need a beer.” He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a Bass ale. “Here.” He held it out to Lestrade.

But Lestrade waved it off as well and instead sat down on the chair next to the desk. “I’ll have to go pretty soon. Mycroft’s waiting and he doesn't like it when his blood is tainted with things. Right now he's pissed enough at me.”

“Why is he pissed at you?”

“If I die, he does, too.”

“So, this bonding is a forever kind of deal.” _Mate or die. Christ._

Lestrade spread his hands.

John popped the top of the bottle and brought it to his own lips. He considered asking if Sherlock cared about alcohol tainting his blood, but then decided he didn't care. Sherlock had already fed on him that night, and he deserved something to soothe down the edges of his mind.

“So you and Mycroft fight?” A life time commitment to someone was bad enough – but what if they didn't get along? That was hell.

“Sometimes,” admitted Lestrade. “Like any other couple. We compromise. Sometimes I give in, mostly he's does. Sherlock will be the same. He'll want you to be happy, so if there is something important to you, he'll give on it.”

“And if Mycroft didn't. Have you ever considered leaving him?”

Lestrade hesitated. “Only once. When I caught Mycroft feeding the girls his blood. I thought he was turning them into thralls to make them more biddable. I was ready to pack them off with their mother and starve him to death.”

John's hand tightened on his beer. “What happened?”

“Sherlock talked me down. You see he and Mycroft were raised by a vampire, much the way my daughters are. Their vampire father regularly fed them blood all through childhood and even adulthood, up until he and their mother turned them. The blood protects them against diseases of all sorts. And it gives the vampire a bond with which to track them, in case they got hurt or in trouble. Their father never used the bond to turn them into thralls. To Mycroft, feeding his blood to my girls was simply responsible parenting.”

John nodded. “So you gave on that one?”

“Once I understood, I gave on that one.” Lestrade’s phone rang. He drew it out of his pocket and glanced down at the caller ID. “--And I'm going to have to give on this one, too.” His expression changed as he answered the phone, from calm and concerned to vulnerable and sweet. “Hi, yeah. Yeah. I guess I'm done. No, I have – I have the patrol ca--” Lestrade stopped mid word. “Okay. No. It's okay. I'll send someone to pick it up. Love you, bye.”

“Mycroft?” John asked curiously.

“Who else?” Lestrade wiped the corner of his eye with a finger. “Sorry, I meant to have this conversation be about you, and somehow I ended up airing my dirty laundry.”

John nodded. “Made for a nice distraction actually. Are you going to be okay with him?” He remembered Mycroft's looming presence in the basement.

“Of course. We'll have a row. He'll try to convince me to give up my job _again_. I'll promise not to run into active crime scenes, and keep him appraised of anything I do that is remotely dangerous. He'll be clingy and overprotective all weekend. Come Monday, when I haven't died on him, it will all blow over and he'll be back to his routines and I'll go back to work. We've been through this before.”

There was a knock at the door. “Our vampires have arrived.” Lestrade stood up. “I wish I could give you more time to make a decision – but, that's not how this works. Sherlock can be an arse, but he's my brother-in-law and I love him. I hope you can, too.”

“But – wait! No! I still don't know what to do!”

“Go with your gut.” He gave John a warm clap on the shoulder and reached the door. “You'll be fine.”

* * *

  
All throughout the car ride to John’s hotel, Sherlock was silent. He stared out the windows at the city at night. Lost in himself. Pointedly shutting Mycroft out.

Mycroft expected that. It had been an uncomfortable discussion for both of them. But the truth at least was out, for both of them to acknowledge, and perhaps finally deal with. Sherlock had been crying out for help for ages – but Mycroft had been too busy with his own agenda to hear him. It was good — no, it was _fantastic_ that John had arrived when he did. Perhaps now, Mycroft wouldn’t have to let Sherlock go to whatever afterlife awaits. Their relationship would simply change, again, and perhaps this time for the better.

Oh, how they used to be such a good team together. Mycroft sighed with longing. He remembered the way they'd once riffed off of each other, driving each other to new insights. How they'd divided up the world, theoretically, between them. And then, year by year, it had gone. Mycroft hadn't even noticed Sherlock's withdrawal, it was so slow.

 _Remember Sherlock, how we used to hunt together? Back in the very beginning, when being a vampire was new?_ They’d been perfect together. An unstoppable duo.

When they hunted a woman, Sherlock would feed first, then watch curiously as Mycroft passionately caressed her, then, in the throes of lust, fed on her. After that, the two glamoured her into forgetting. They never picked virgins, they never left marks. No harm, no foul. When they hunted men, it was the other way around. Mycroft fed first, and Sherlock, furtively and guiltily, indulged in what the time considered criminal perversions. After they'd glamour their victim's forgetfulness and sent him on way, Sherlock would sulk guiltily about it for hours.

To Mycroft it had never made any sense. How was sodomising men worse than seducing women into adultery? The Bible frowned on both. For that matter how did either compare to drinking their blood and controlling their minds? In for a penny, in for a pound.

For a very short time, they'd hunted men exclusively, and Mycroft slaked his lusts there as well, discovering as much about himself as he did about Sherlock. He’d done it for Sherlock’s sake, but after being assured for a little while, Sherlock grew perplexingly embarrassed, and then insisted on hunting alone. Mycroft accepted it. Hunting was a very intimate activity, and they were both well enough versed that they didn't need each other's moral support anymore.

In retrospect that had been their first step away from each other. The first step on Sherlock’s long downward spiral towards death.

Mycroft had gone on to pick his victims from both sexes as the mood took him. He fed, he fucked, he wallowed in the joy that it was to be young and a vampire. He’d assumed that Sherlock had done the same. It wasn't until more than a century later that he realised that Sherlock was feeding, but, with rare occasion, no longer having sex with his meals. He'd bought into society's hypocritical stance on the issue.    
“It's not mental illness,” he'd tried to assure Sherlock in the 1860's. “I don't care how many priests rail against it, or what nonsense doctors spout. The Greeks at their intellectual peak spoke on about the beauty of love between two men. Alexander the Great loved Hephaestion --”

“I don't care what the ancient Greeks did or didn't do, ” Sherlock had replied. “This isn't love. It's lust. And it's unnecessary. My body, my choice which is more than I can say about your victims.”

Mycroft had thrown up his hands and decided Sherlock’s celibacy wasn’t his problem.

Besides, there was so much else where they agreed. Oh, they got on _gloriously_ together. For several years in the late 1800's they'd divided up the House of Commons and made thralls of them all, using them as proxies for their own political debates. Those years had been wonderful – before the Vampire Counsel had come down on them and forced them to sever the bonds and stop behaving in such an outrageously public manner.

It never quite got so good again. Mycroft continued to manipulate politics, but Sherlock had no heart for it anymore. He became less of a partner, and more of a subordinate, then a devil's advocate, and finally he'd lost interest all together and took up drugs.

Mycroft should have noticed Sherlock's self-loathing. He damn well should have noticed. But he hadn't. Not really. Not until now, when it was almost too late.

_Perhaps John will be able to do what I haven't._

They arrived at the hotel John was using as a flat. The place was grungy and cheap. The walls were tagged in places. It smelled stale and smoky. But Greg had left his mark here, like the delicate perfume of flowers near a rubbish bin. Mycroft's teeth extended. He kept his lips shut as he opened the lock and passed the night desk clerk. The man jumped a little at their presence, looking up from his sociology text book. But Mycroft and Sherlock hit him with simultaneous glamours that sent him back to his studies with renewed vigour.

Mycroft lead the way to the lift. Thanks to Anthea, he knew John's room number, but even if he hadn't, he could trace Greg easily through his bond. Once the doors of the lift closed and he'd pressed the button for the appropriate floor, he turned to Sherlock.

“Have you thought of what you are going to say to him?” he ventured.

Sherlock tightened his lips and shook his head.

Mycroft opened his mouth, then shut it. Greg's scent was _strong_ in the hall and the bond between them pulled tight. He bit back a moan, and Sherlock's troubles seemed to fade to nothing in the back of his mind. He hadn't fed on Greg in a _week_. It was nigh on unbearable.

He knocked on the door. It opened after a pause and Greg looked out.

Sherlock pushed passed them both into the room and Greg nearly stumbled out into the hall. The door slammed behind him.

Greg turned around and rubbed his elbow where the door had pushed it. “Well, that was rude.”

“They need to be alone now,” said Mycroft. _As do we._

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Could have used a minute or two more, though.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” said Mycroft. “Really, this is between them. We can only nudge. And you have other duties.”

Greg turned and met Mycroft's eyes. The bond between them tightened hard.

“Not in the hall,” said Greg in a fevered whisper.

Mycroft's hands shook and he willed his teeth back down. It hurt. It really hurt to be this close to his mate and not have his teeth in him. Not be ripping off those clothes, and holding him, tasting him. The floor was disgustingly discoloured and nonetheless inviting, but Greg wouldn't forgive him if he took him in public. Always wait, wait, wait. Mycroft couldn't wait anymore. He couldn't!

“Let's go home,” Mycroft said. He couldn't keep his voice from being forbidding – but he also couldn't give in any more. Greg had a duty. It was time Mycroft insisted he do it. “Now,” he ordered.


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

John watched Lestrade vanish with the sudden abruptness of a magician’s trick. One second he was standing there, framed in the open doorway, the next he gone, as though he'd been sucked out. Startled, John jumped back, sloshing his beer, and narrowly managing not to drop the bottle.

In Lestrade's place was a tall, gangly man with wild curls and even wilder looking eyes. It took John a split second to recognise the familiar features, but only because he was so used to seeing the man cool and composed and right at that moment he looked absolutely wrecked.

Sherlock. A vampire. _John's_ vampire.

Sherlock slammed the door shut and pressed his back against it. Then he slid down, almost bonelessly, until he sat on the floor. His knees were tucked up to his chin, making him look surprisingly youthful and fragile. That impression struck John as odd, considering he'd just seen him lift a man and pin him to a wall.

Unconsciously, John took an over-large swallow of his beer and coughed as it went down the wrong way. Sherlock's eyes latched on to him, panicked, as John put his fist to his mouth and tried to stifle the sound. He placed the bottle on the desk as he cleared the last of the beer his throat. Sherlock relaxed a bit.

If there were an olympic medal for awkward moments, this would have been a strong contender for it. The silence stretched until John couldn't bear it anymore. Sherlock was waiting for something, maybe a sign from God, before making the next move. Obviously, it was up to John to break the ice.

“So,” he said, uncomfortably. “Mate, huh?”

Sherlock stared him in the eye again and John felt a disconcerting dizziness. He looked away and it disappeared. When he looked back, Sherlock's eyes were locked on the floor in front of his feet.

John tried again. “Does that mean... what it sounds like?”

“Yes. More or less.” Sherlock's voice was almost painfully attractive. For a second John just savoured the sound rather than the meaning. If only Sherlock would talk about his case, or the weather, or something. And then John could just sit back and listen and not have to deal with what was going on between them.

No, thought John, standing straighter and steeling his gut. He could do this. There was no way to get around the elephant in the room. They'd just have to face it squarely and deal.

So. Where did they go from here? What did being a “mate” really mean in practical terms? John had already experienced the biting and blood exchange, and as physically unpleasant as it was, he could deal with that. The “bonding” part was a bit unfathomable, but at least it didn't sound painful. That just left the marriage portion, which … needed to be negotiated.

“I've never had sex with a man,” he admitted.

“I've never had consensual sex,” Sherlock admitted back.

John stared at Sherlock's thin, delicate face and felt his stomach lurch. “You mean you were-- oh God!”

“Not me,” growled Sherlock firmly.

Oh. Breath of relief. _Oh!_ John took an involuntary step back and shuddered. So much for vulnerable. John was acutely aware that Sherlock was blocking the only exit from the flat. He was trapped.

“I'm not going to rape you,” said Sherlock, pointedly.

“That's -- that's good,” said John, relieved. He dropped his hand from his chest. “So,” he broached tentatively. “That's what you like? The -- the non-consensual bit?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock was back to looking at the floor. “It's just the only way sex was available to me at the time.”

“That's not true,” said John. “I don't know if you can see yourself in a mirror, but you are quite handsome. You shouldn't have any problem finding someone who would... you... consensually.”

Sherlock smiled tightly. “I can see myself fine in the mirror. And there are people who would 'me consensually' as you put it, but they aren't my type.”

“Your type?”

“Men.” Sherlock locked eyes with him again. There was that odd feeling. And then it was gone and Sherlock wasn't smiling anymore. “I'm gay, as you suspected.”

Great, John's mind gibbered, _My_ vampire is a homosexual rapist who I'll be tied to for life. No, I can't be compatible with someone like that. Sherlock had to be exaggerating somehow.

“Well, I'm sure there are many men who would happily hop in your bed if you asked.”

“Sure there are. Now,” agreed Sherlock. “But trust me this 'everything is fine' attitude everyone seems to quote at me is a _very_ recent development. Back when I was sexually active, the attitude was considerably different. Gays were _hanged_ for indiscreet affairs. Those that weren't were thoroughly and publicly disgraced.

“The only way I could trust not to be betrayed was to glamour the memory away afterwards. And if I was doing that, why stop there? It didn't matter if a man was attracted to me, or even homosexual. He'd happily do anything I wanted. He couldn't say no. And besides, my very existence smacked of evil – I took his blood without his consent, why not whatever else pleased me?

“No one in the vampire community batted an eye to it. They all were doing the same. Amongst unmated vampires, it was all but expected. Still is. To them, my shame was the true perversion.”

John didn't know what to say. No matter the justification, Sherlock was right, it was rape.

“I know it was wrong, John.” Silence descended again. “I don't do it anymore.”

“Did it hurt them?” John blurted. My god, it was like picking a scab. Let it go, John, he thought to himself. He doesn't do it anymore. And this was not a conversation either of them wanted to be having.

“Of course, not.” Sherlock ran a hand over his face. “They all enjoyed it greatly. As did I. But it's moot. I haven't had sex in in over a century. So truly, you are safe, John. I do have some self-control.”

“You've been celibate for a century?” John had been celebate for three years and that had only been because the opportunity was non-existent. Afghanistan was not a good place to pick up prostitutes. He couldn't imagine giving sex up for life. Especially not a centuries long life.

“I was mostly celibate even longer than that.” Sherlock sighed and let his head rock back so that he stared at the ceiling. “No one has to have sex, John. It's a diversion at best, and a disaster at worst. It wastes time and energy and leaves nothing truly of value in its wake. It's messy -- emotionally, physically, spiritually. It messes with your priorities. It leaves you weak and vulnerable to those who might use you. There's a reason why the men of the cloth have long chosen celibacy. When you put aside the baser urges of the body, you can truly concentrate on the important things – Reason! Intellect! Truth!

“And it's damnably frustrating to see the things that I've been working for for the past five years be utterly derailed by this physical – _need_!” Sherlock bit out. “I don't blame you for rejecting me. If ever you dreamt of marriage, you certainly never dreamt it would be to someone like me. You've been saddled with an unbearable onus. As have I.”

Sherlock literally shook with emotion. John couldn't help but feel oddly protective and sorry for him.

“I don't want to be your mate any more than you want to be mine, John,” Sherlock finished. “It's unfair to both of us what has happened. I would have prevented it, if I could. I'm sorry.”

Silence descended between them. John couldn't quite account for why Sherlock's words didn't reassure him. But they didn't. Rejection, even of a thing John wasn't sure he wanted himself, still stung.

And yet, did it really matter what either of them wanted? As Lestrade had said, their eyes had met. It was over. Someone was going to have to be the practical one, and it looked like that job was falling to John. Either they bonded, or Sherlock died. And John didn't want Sherlock to die, so bonded it would be.

Wait – Bonded. Suddenly John understood. “I see,” he said, excitedly. “No, I completely get what you are saying. It's okay. I get it!”

Sherlock looked at him perplexed.

“I know this is the equivalent of marriage,” John clarified. “But it's an arranged marriage if ever there were one. I'm perfectly happy to 'not and say we did', if that's what you'd prefer. I won't force myself on you, either, Sherlock. And I'm not going to get in the way of the things you love.”

“What are you talking about, John?”

“What I'm saying is, when you need blood, or this bond thing, I've got your back. Just ask. Otherwise we'll go about our own business, like flatmates do. And even if life takes us in different directions, if you meet a man you want, or I meet a girl I do, I won't let it come between us. We can still be friends. I'll keep close enough that you can get whatever you need from me. I'll be your mate. Just not... you know... your _mate_.”

John felt a bitter relief at this. Part of him wanted more – wanted what Sherlock wasn't offering. But this... this could be enough.

Sherlock's eyes widened. “You mean you will give me blood, you'll bind yourself to me in some vaguely defined emotional way, but you'll still have your eye out for someone better? You want me to be content with a crumb or two of your attention now and then, like some charity donation? You expect me to be _happy_ while you go galavanting off into the sunset with someone _else?”_

That didn't sound like relief in Sherlock's voice. In fact it sounded like a slap to the face. John felt raw inside. His chest tightened unbearably. But then anger finally burst through, soothing over his hurt feelings with the purity of righteous indignation.

“You don't want me, _fine_ ,” John snapped. “But don't tell me I can't find someone who does. This is _your_ hang up, Sherlock, not mine.”

Sherlock was speechless. His face turned pathetically vulnerable again, but John wasn't having any of it.

“Don't look at me like that. This is as far as I'm going to bend.” _I'm not anyone's doormat._ “I'm not going to be faithful to someone who doesn't even want me. I’m not going to devote my waking moments to someone who sees me as a fucking _onus_. So, yes. I'll keep you alive, but I'm not going to put my life on hold for you. You can take your fountain of youth and shove it. I'm going to date. And when I find someone who loves me, I'm going to marry her. And before you get all pouty about it, remember, you rejected _me_ first.”

Sherlock was on his feet. His fangs were bared and his face a rictus of fury. “You stupid, stupid _idiot._ I'm _not_ rejecting you!” In that moment he really was the nightmare vampire of horror movies.

“Christ!” said John, backing up so fast he tripped on the corner of the bed and went crashing to the floor.

He never quite reached it. In that second Sherlock was on him, just as he had been in the classroom, only this time his arms had caught his waist and lowered him, terribly gently, until he lay flat. John fought back instinctively, pushing the other away, kicking. Nothing moved, nothing even shifted. Sherlock was not fragile at all. He was iron. Unopposable. And oh God he was breathing down John's neck, quite literally. Lips ghosting over John's ear.

“John,” Sherlock's voice was breathy and soft, and agonised. “Please, forgive me.” John felt a kiss on his cheek. “I never meant to push you away. I'm not rejecting you. You aren’t an onus. I _need_ you. I _have_ to --” Sherlock lifted John up, putting a knee under his back so that he was curled in Sherlock's lap. The larger man's arms stretched around his shoulders holding him in a tight and very intimate way. “Forgive me, John. Please. Forgive me.”

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John gasped, at wits end. He felt simultaneously like he was drowning and coming up for air. “I forgive you. What do you want?”

“All of you. All of you.” A kiss on his lips. “All. Of. You.”

  


* * *

Greg knew the end of the tunnel would be sunny and happy, but getting through the tunnel itself – that was going to suck. He'd richly _earned_ every accusing glance, every chilly word, every overbearing pronouncement Mycroft might level at him. Hell, he was was kicking himself for it. What the hell had he thought he was doing back there?

It was stupid. Sherlock had vampire strength, speed, and his powers could bring anyone to their knees. He could shrug off a bullet, so long as it wasn't to his heart or brain. _Of course_ he could go running into a room where gunfire was heard without stopping to get an assessment of the situation.

Greg _couldn't_. He was a middle-aged detective inspector more accustomed these days to flying a desk than chasing a bad guy. He was virtually unarmed and he wasn't even wearing kevlar. All the blood he'd drunk in the last five years didn't make him any more bullet proof. Running into the room after Sherlock was downright _suicidal_.

But after twenty years of service, he just couldn't cast aside the urge to come to people's rescue because his spouse didn't want him risking himself. It was in his DNA to fly toward danger rather than away. It felt gut wrong _not_ to investigate when he knew people were in danger.

Well, he thought, Humble Pie wasn't going to eat itself.

“I'm sorry,” Greg said as he walked down the hall of John's hotel. Mycroft followed a step behind him, as if corralling him in the right direction, or possibly preventing him from bolting. “I wasn't thinking. I didn't realise there'd be a gunman.”

“Lying won't endear you to me right now,” said Mycroft, icily. “You didn't want Sherlock to steal your glory. You wanted to be the hero. Well, that didn't happen, now, did it.” He jabbed at the lift button hard enough to star the plastic.

Greg slouched. _Ouch._

They walked the rest of the way to the street in silence. Mycroft's limo had stopped right behind his patrol car. The driver opened the door for them, then hid himself behind the tinted glass that separated the front seat from the back.

“I suggest,” said Mycroft in that delicate tone he used when he was being _extremely_ precise with his wording. “That you make any calls you think you'll need to in the next few days.” _Don't even think of bringing work home._ Meaning loud and clear.

“Good idea,” said Greg.

Supposedly Greg got weekends off, though he hadn't been taking them. It was more a matter of confirming that he was taking the time than arranging for anything. The car left at John's hotel needed to be picked up, which Sally agreed to without question. Mycroft held out his hand when he finished, and Greg put the phone in it.

“I'm grounded?” He couldn't keep a bit of mirth out of his voice.

But Mycroft still had no humour. “It's been more than a quarter century since I last killed a man. Or boy in this case. Sherlock was quite put out with me. Apparently the youth had information relevant to your case which is now forever lost. All because I had to break his neck to stop him from putting a bullet through yours.”

Greg winced. “I'm so sorry, Mycroft. I really screwed up.”

“Do you realise what would have happened if I _weren't_ keeping such a close eye on you? What if I had been caught up with something at work? What if I were asleep? Did it occur to you to give me a call and let me know that you were driving headlong into danger?” Mycroft looked at him. “It's bad enough not being able to trust Sherlock – but not even you?”

“I'm sorry,” Greg repeated.

Mycroft stared ahead. “I'm sorely tempted to do something really awful. Sorely tempted.”

“Oh, Mycroft. Don't.”

Mycroft smiled, his hand loosely held Greg's phone. “You would be a very good house husband. Your daughters would be thrilled to see your face more often. And I could truly relax in the knowledge that you are safe and sound. The more I think on it, the more it seems the ideal solution. We've never needed your income. That job has gotten in the way of our happiness far too often. The simplest, most logical thing to do would be to end it.”

No, no, no. The worst of it was that Mycroft could get him fired with a single phone call. Time to derail this conversation. Get Mycroft's mind off things that made him angry.

If this were Lydia, Greg would suggest they spend the weekend shopping for whatever the hell designer whats-it she was lusting after this month. She'd usually forgive him on the spot.

Mycroft was a bit tricker, but he too had his soft areas. And Greg knew just which one to hit.

“Let's do page 63,” blurted Greg. “Paragraph two.” Five years ago, by way of an introduction, Mycroft had written a thesis on himself. One chapter had been devoted to all the sexual acts, mundane to elaborate, that Mycroft enjoyed. Greg had it memorised.

Mycroft stiffened, then stared at him. Greg wondered if for a moment Mycroft didn't remember the reference, but the sudden bulge in his pants suggested otherwise.

“How long?” he asked in a breathy whisper.

“It's Lydia's weekend with the girls, isn't it?”

“That long?” Mycroft purred. “Oh, Greg.” The mobile was tucked into his pocket without another thought. “Oh, Greg. I've missed you so much. I can't even begin to tell you. I _yearn_ for you. I _ache_. I know that kink is a bit imposing, but that you would indulge me – it means so much to me. It truly does.”

He pulled Greg to him and kissed him on the lips. Giddily, Greg kissed back. Then Mycroft's mouth drifted lower and Greg felt the sweet, oddly pleasurable sting of his teeth sinking in. It felt very much like forgiveness. _Oh, yes!_

* * *

  
“I forgive you,” said John, over and over. Did he even know what he was saying?

Sherlock pulled him tighter. Part of him wanted to cage the man against his chest forever, never let him leave. Part of him wanted to shove him away and cry. He hadn't cried in centuries, but he felt the tears welling up. It was so frustrating to be this close, and still be denied what he needed.  
He threw out thread after thread of connection. They all bounced. John seemed so easy, so accommodating, but his will was _iron_. He was untouchable. Even Greg allowed the briefest of touches before snapping it off. John wouldn't even allow that anymore.

“Please,” he said breathily in John's ear. “I'm trying to bond with you. Let me bond. Let me in. If ever you felt anything at all for me, let me touch you.”

“You are touching me,” said John, confused. They were curled on the floor together. Sherlock's fingers slipped under John's shirt, his fingertips drawing small circles across the small of his mate's back. “I don't think it's possible to touch more without removing our clothes.”

“Not physically, you id--” He bit his tongue to stop the insult. His mouth filled briefly with his own blood. Swallowing, he tried again. “Not physically. Let me connect to your soul.”

” _How?_ ” John asked. “I don't control my soul.”

“You have to trust me. Look into my eyes.” John squirmed until he was able to partially straddle Sherlock's lap. He leaned back as far as Sherlock let him and stared curiously into Sherlock's eyes. For all the awkwardness and imposition being put on him, John seemed more curious than frightened. Those were not the eyes of someone trying to fight the situation. He seemed genuinely baffled as to how to cooperate.

“Okay, and now?” said John after a moment.

Sherlock stared into his eyes – the most vulnerable point of entry – and tried to connect again. For the briefest of moments he felt something, then it was gone. Oh, but that was enough! It was _possible_ for John to bond. There was nothing wrong with either of them, other than perhaps stubbornness and an overabundance of distrust.

“Yes, there that!” Sherlock nearly shouted. “Do that again!”

“What... that dizzy feeling? Is that you? I thought that was me being tired.”

“YES!” Sherlock let out a whoop of a relief. “That dizzy feeling. Don't fight it.” He tried again, harder now, and it caught. So thin, so tenuous, but there. “That's it. That's it.”

So precious, so perfect, so unbelievably fragile that Sherlock hardly dared breathe. They were bonding. It felt so right.

“This feels so wrong,” John murmured. “I feel like my fly is down. How long do I have to do this?”

Sherlock didn't answer him. His teeth were fully descended and his salivary glands warm and ready for a bite. Though he was better fed than he'd been in days, he felt famished. Explanations would have to wait. He didn't dare risk losing the bond again. Fast as a snake, he brought his lips to the sweat-salted skin of John's throat. He savoured the momentary resistance to his teeth, then, with a delightful release, he was in.

The blood flowed from John to him. His flavour was better than his smell. Ambrosia. The weak bond between them strengthened, grew flexible. Filled.

“Oh!” said John clutching at his shirt. “That's... That’s…!” Sherlock felt John's cock harden against his thigh, but for once he was too distracted to do more than file away the reaction.

It was like a sudden bright light in a darkened room. Sherlock could finally _see_ John. There it was -- John's spirit, strong, independent, brave and quite, quite confused. John the practical. John the biddable. John the bendable. No need to resist when nothing truly touched you. No need to be timid, when you could absorb any shock. Even the Post Traumatic Stress was a misdiagnosis. John's nightmares weren't about fear – they were about loss and worry and the shame of failure. Sherlock's intellect was restless when it wasn't pushed. John's _soul_ was similar. John _needed_ his boundaries shaken. He needed Sherlock.

Sherlock broke off the bite, momentarily too overwhelmed to continue. Instinct took over and, without a thought, he bit his own wrist with fierce savagery. He had to get his blood _in_ John, right this moment. The blood welled up and spilled, soaking into his sleeve, dripping on the floor. Messy. Wasteful. Wonderfully indulgent. Before John could react, he'd brought the wound to his lips and _willed_ through their bond that John drink.

John's mouth opened without reluctance. At the first taste he latched on and began sucking furiously, as if he were terribly thirsty. Every pull sent shivers of pleasure through Sherlock until he was delirious with lust and hard as rock. This is how it should have been back in the classroom. The bond made all the difference.

As John drank, the bond between them widened and tightened, grew harder, firmer until it was stronger than any Sherlock had ever felt before. It was active, dynamic and mutual. He knew that John saw him as clearly as he saw John. All his faults, his hopes, his dreams laid bare.

It was terrifying. It was exciting. This must be how thraldom feels, he thought. _Fascinating!_

Sherlock briefly considered trying to savour this phase, but now he was fully immersed in instinct. The urge to move on to the next step was overwhelming. In that moment, a century of celibacy fell away as if it were an afternoon's whimsy. Thoughts of consummation seduced him. He didn't think it was possible to resist, even if he wanted to. And he didn't want to. He was riding this truly interesting experience all the way to the end.

There were still barriers to overcome, thin, fragile impediments. Unacceptable. But not for long. Sherlock utterly revelled in the stretch, resistance, sudden yielding of John's clothes to his hands. The flesh beneath smelled unbearably seductive – ripe with adrenaline and arousal and just the tastiest edge of fear. Sherlock was vaguely aware that the noises John was making were words.

“-- my _clothes_ , for Christ sake. Oh well great, too late. They're ruined --”

Sherlock tuned him out again. He couldn't muster even the smallest spark of care for the damage to John's wardrobe. Everything was replaceable. Everything but John.

In a single movement, Sherlock lifted John up and heaved him onto the bed. Then with quick, careful plucks, he peeled away John's ruined garments, exposing his compact, well muscled form.

Sherlock impulsively leaned in and ran his tongue from navel to clavicle. His mind flooded with information, all of it saying that here lay a healthy, virile male, needing to be touched and used and pleasured. Fucked. Sherlock eagerly ran his hands over John's skin, sensing the underlying structures, the warm firmness of his muscles, the softness of his fat, the tendons pressing against the skin, the jutting bones giving it all shape. It all demanded to be explored in every way possible, with hands, with tongue, with teeth.

With his cock. Right now. Sherlock leaned back and pulled at his own clothes. Buttons popped and flew across the room, then with graceless yanks he had his trousers and pants off. His erection bounced free, veiny and hard, already glistening. John stiffened and stared with equal parts desire and intimidation. He was breathing hard, like he'd just run a race. Through the bond, Sherlock knew that the strength of his own emotions disturbed John.

“Steady – slow – slow down,” John said gasping.

With enormous effort Sherlock held his muscles in check, even though he needed to be _in_ John. Needed to fuck him, bury himself to the hilt again and again until they were both satisfied. _Now, now, now_ went the pulse in his mind.

Through the bond, Sherlock knew that John needed it, too. His oh-so-human body ached in anticipation. At the same time, John probably knew best. There was no need to rush. Sherlock was nothing if not a paragon of self-control. He held still. Time passed. A moment, two.

The dissonance in their bond faded. John relaxed, running his hands over Sherlock's chest in an oddly fond way. “I know we're both into this,” he said apologetically, “God help me, I really do want … what you want.” John stumbled a little in embarrassment at the admission, “But I'd really rather be able to walk normally when this is over, if you don't mind.”

Oh was that the worry. Ridiculous. Injury was nigh on impossible. He could take John without lube or prep and between the blood they'd shared and their bond, he would feel nothing but pleasure. He could scratch and bite John and not leave a mark.

“I promise I won't break you,” he said.

“I know you won't,” said John smiling. “I trust you – of course I do. It's just, I've never done this before. I don't think I'm ready to jump into the deep end quite yet.”

Sherlock shuddered. The need was _agonising_. “I can't wait too long,” he admitted.

“I know.” John reached over and pulled some mild hand cream from the table. He poured some over his hand and then reached over and began rubbing over Sherlock's cock in a terribly slow but tantalising way. “See. Slow is nice.” He sat up and kissed the side of Sherlock's neck. His cheek. His lips. Sherlock gasped and John's lips seemed to part to breathe out.

Sherlock pushed John back down, flat to the bed, gently, but firmly. John yielded. Using one arm to prop himself up, he let the other roam John's flanks, slowly. His past encounters had been so furtive, so quick, it felt oddly decadent not to rush. He lowered his head slowly, so as not to startle. Their mouths opened to each other again, John's tongue explored the sharp tips of Sherlock's still descended fangs. Sherlock felt John flinch with surprise as he cut himself. The taste of John's blood was back. _Oh, you tease! Don't you distract me with that!_ Smiling, Sherlock broke their kiss and began planting small nips across his throat and shoulders and thoroughly distracted himself. The wounds healed the moment he teeth were removed.

For a while they stroked each other in a way that seemed relaxed enough on the surface, but wasn't. The hand job felt good, but it wasn't what his body wanted. He wanted to be inside John, to feel surrounded by him, his heat, the warm smoothness Sherlock knew he'd feel. The effort to go slow, stay safe, not to push, was driving Sherlock slowly insane. Yet, he wouldn't, he just _couldn't_ do anything to upset his mate.

This teasing was agony. He didn’t know how much longer he could fight instinct. He was going to break soon and just take him the way every fibre of his being shouted it needed … and he’d promised. Oh god, he’d promised.

“Yeah,” said John abruptly. “You're right. This is complete rubbish. Just fuck me already, Sherlock.”

“You sure?” asked Sherlock, his heart speeding up. Relief made him giddy.

“Yeah. Christ, if I don't get off soon, I think I might burst something.”

Eagerly, Sherlock took over. The first thing he did was feed John more blood. As John suckled his wrist, Sherlock slid his other hand between his buttocks. John sighed and parted his legs. Sherlock felt John's hand tighten around his cock as he was breached with first one finger, then two.

John turned his head away, a line of blood painting a stripe across his cheek. “Oh, god, oh _fuck_ , why does this feel so good?”

“Because you know you need it. It's symbolic. The sealing of the bond. Consummation of our marriage.”

“This isn't going to knock me up or anything,” said John suddenly alarmed.

Sherlock laughed. “I assure you, that's not how vampire babies are made.”

“Oh, thank god.”

He groaned as Sherlock twisted his fingers, curling them to rub against John's prostate. “Yeeeeesssss. Ha. Ah. Now, Sherlock. I need you in me. Now. Are you going to make me beg? Now.”

_Now, now, now._

Sherlock lunged forward, fitting himself between John's parted thighs as if the space were made just for him. The head of his cock pushed firmly against the ring of muscle and it parted. And then at last he was in. John was embracing him, his hands grasping Sherlock's back, his legs wrapped around his waist. Sherlock rocked slowly forward, driving himself in until he couldn't anymore. John let out a little cry of intense relief, as if this was exactly what his body was thirsting for. He bucked and twisted a little, making the thrusts harder.

The bond between them, already firm, grew unbreakable. Sherlock knew that John would never leave him any more than he'd leave John. They were part of each other on a soul level. Together. A single unit with two bodies. He could feel all of John. Every bit of him. It was glorious.

They rocked, slid apart and together, again. Again. The movements were smooth and simple and perfect. Their pleasure echoed between them back and forth along their bond until it became unbearable. John gasped and bucked his hips harder, encouraging a faster pace. Sherlock accommodated him, enjoying the flex of his muscles in his hips, the amazing friction. Even the moist slapping sounds of their congress seemed to make the act more appealing. He lowered his head and their mouths met again in a graceless, sloppy kiss.

Nothing this good can last for long. Sherlock arched his back with a cry and thrust wildly. Orgasm wiped everything else away. His precious intellect was forgotten. The case, the worries, all the events of the night were completely gone. He drove himself against John until the final peak passed, and all that was left was their ragged breathing.

In the wake, Sherlock was overwhelmed with a sense of peace. His heart felt light and warm and full. He fondly ran a hand through John's short, sweaty hair. How could it possibly be that someone this wonderful would bind himself to him? “I love you, John,” he whispered.

“Love you, too,” John said. He paused a moment, and frowned. “This wasn't going to be like a one time thing before you go back to celibacy again, is it?”

Sherlock jerked up and stared at him with horror in his eyes. “No!”

John relaxed. “Good. Because I could get used to this.”

* * *


	6. Epilogue

 

 

“Ah, thank you, keep the change,” said Mycroft, handing the delivery girl a few pounds and accepting the takeaway. “This smells excellent.” At least it smelled very much the way it had in the past, which both Greg and the girls insisted was excellent. To him food most mostly a null-scent – neither good nor bad, easily ignorable unless for some reason it was important to notice it.

His dinner was waiting in the bedroom. Greg's aroma had died down considerably over the last day and a half, but he wasn't completely drained yet. There was one last nibble to be had before the girls came home. Then Mycroft would be back to feeding on thralls for a few days, while Greg recovered, but that was fine. It was a good way to be exhausted.

Mycroft carried the take out sack to the kitchen, glancing fondly down the hall towards the back of the flat. “Lunch soon, love,” he called.

There was no answer, but then Mycroft really didn't expect there to be.

As he dished the ravioli onto a plate, his mobile rang with an unfamiliar number.

> `Successfully moved John into 221B.  
> You can cancel my funeral.  
> --SH`

_Good job, John,_ thought Mycroft, with considerable relief. _And good luck with him._

“Good news,” he called back down the hall. “Sherlock's managed to connect with his mate, after all.”

He thought he heard an answering grunt. Across their soul bond, he felt a bit of warmth.

Mycroft arranged the pasta in an eye pleasing way, grabbed a fork and headed back to their bedroom.

“I've been supplanted, Greg,” he said, placing the plate on the bedside. “Sherlock doesn't need a guardian angel looking after him anymore. He's found himself a genuine saint.”

He gazed down at Greg and smiled. “I can't decide whether to be relieved or sad. I'll miss him. But perhaps he'll avoid me a bit less now that I no longer have to parent him.”

He reached out and caressed Greg's hair and admired his chiseled beauty. The greeks would have made statues of him. “And I've better things to spend my energy on, haven't I.”

Greg lay naked, his pale body criss-crossed with wide leather straps, laced in such a way that movement, beyond breathing, was nigh on impossible. Even his head was held in position. Mycroft quickly tested to see if anything were pressing too hard or causing discomfort, even though his empathetic bond told him Greg wasn't in any pain. Sometimes his mate was a bit too stoic for his own good.

“Page 63, paragraph 2,” he said fondly.

 _My kind is considered synonymous with evil and those who know what I am invariably treat me with instinctive wariness. Because of that, I find it incompatibly erotic when I find a lover who will knowingly put his trust in me completely. Not because I glamoured him, but because he has total faith in me. To that extent, I'd like to bind my partner in such a way that he relinquishes all power over his body and has to trust that I will take care of all his needs. Let me feed and bathe him. Care for him. Pleasure him._

He rubbed the side of Greg's face with his hand, felt the slightly tacky skin, where the sweat had cooled and dried. “Our time is almost over. Then it will be back to normal life. Are you growing tired of this?”

Greg didn't – couldn't move. But through their bond, Mycroft felt a negation. There was no panic or weariness, only a deep, cathartic ease. Greg had needed this exercise as much as Mycroft had. Perhaps even more. Greg sometimes found it impossible to relax, especially when cases assigned to him went sour.

That he would need help letting go just at the same time that Mycroft had needed to latch tight just showed how astonishingly compatible they were with each other.

He slid his hand to the side of Greg's face and released the gag. Greg automatically moved him jaw about. Mycroft immediately answered by massaged the sides of his face. Greg sighed but said nothing. He was too deep into the game to speak.

“I'm going to sit you up a little,” Mycroft said. He loosened a few straps to give enough slack. Then lifted and arranged the pillows under his back and head. “A little lunch. And then I think there's one more go in you.”

Greg moaned softly. His eyes were glassy. His cock began to plump in anticipation. Oh, dear Lord, he was a ravishing thing, all trussed up and helpless.

Mycroft cut a ravioli in half, then deftly swept it through the sauce before lifting it to Greg's lips. He parted them obediently. The act of feeding another person always struck Mycroft as incredibly intimate. Nourishing another's body, seeing their enjoyment, the pleasure the taste gave them. It almost made Mycroft wish he could eat human food as well.

He'd get his own in a few minutes and all the better for the food. A freshly fed human was a delight to savour. Their bodies flushed with a little surge of extra vitality. He could enjoy Greg's pleasure vicariously and sense the happiness and wellbeing that came with a full stomach through their bond.

Mycroft brought another ravioli to Greg's lips. They'd done this often enough that their timing was near perfect. Greg parted his lips in time with the arrival of Mycroft's fork. A graceful dance. A harmony of movement. Mycroft felt at once perfectly in control and also perfectly part of something bigger and more important than himself. He was overwhelmed with a sense of tenderness and love for this amazing man who had put himself, his whole life, at Mycroft's mercy.

“And now,” said Mycroft. “Dessert.”

This was the best part. He took off his shirt and his undervest. Greg's nostrils flared, his eyes dilated in anticipation of sex.

“Not yet,” Mycroft cautioned. “Sustenance first.” He took a wrist in his mouth and nipped a vein. His own blood flowed briefly over his tongue, tasty and tainted with the naughtiness of vanity and self-pleasure. He removed his wrist promptly and put it to Greg's lips. His mate obediently latched on and drew in mouthful after mouthful in deep, large gulps. Savouring the blood for as long as possible before swallowing.

Part of Mycroft was swept up by the sensual pleasure of feeding. The connection between them was powerful and energising. He felt as if with every suck, he was being drawn into Greg's body, possessing it from the inside as well as the outside. God, there was nothing like this. Mycroft had always liked giving his blood to others better even than taking blood. One was a necessity, the other – bliss.

Of course, there was only so long he could bear the erotic agony of bloodletting without taking it further. He pulled his wrist abruptly away, healing before a drop could be lost to the sheet. By the time his fingers met the zip of his trousers there was no sign that he'd ever been injured.

Greg writhed in his bonds, not so much because he desired to be let out of them, but because the sudden energy he'd been given needed some place to be spent. His erection was full and stiff, his cock already starting to drip with need. _Soon, soon,_ Mycroft promised, silently, and stepped out of the last of his clothes.

Naked he joined Greg, half-covering his laced torso with his own. He felt the soft, warmth of his skin and the harsher texture of the leather straps. His mouth took ownership of Greg's, commanding it with nips, invading it with his tongue. _Oh, yes, yes, my love, one more time we do this dance before we have to go back to the dull routine of daily life._

His hands caressed Greg's sides, testing the straps again, but not so much for injury but rather for tightness. There was no slack, Greg was going nowhere until Mycroft let him. Perfect trust. Utter submission.

He rolled off and released the anchoring straps, to give Greg enough freedom of movement to make sex actually possible. He left Greg's wrists still tied to his shins, hands still bagged, but now Greg could wiggle a bit and draw his knees up to his chest or spread his legs farther apart.

Mycroft couldn't bear it. He slicked himself up with lube before sliding his hand between Greg's thighs and stroking his anus. The ring of muscle was already loose and moist with the evidence of their previous congress, but Mycroft slid two fingers in anyway, for the sheer sensual enjoyment of touching Greg. He pushed them firmly forward until they were as deeply in as he could get them, then he twisted them in a circle. Greg moaned and bucked his hips.

Greg's eyes were on his as Mycroft leaned forward and placed his head between those pale, hard thighs. His tongue darted out, found Greg's erection and licked a ticklish swipe up the ridge on the underside. He tasted the slight salt-slick of precum. Vitality tickled his taste buds and he remembered that his hunger wasn't purely carnal.

To Greg the nip on his penis would be more a shock than a pain. The delicious tightening of their soul bond overrode any complaints his nerves had. Sure enough Greg's groan was one of unadulterated pleasure. Mycroft ran his tongue over the pierced skin, sweeping up blood and sweat and seminal fluid, savouring each separately and together.

 _This_ was far better than any human food could ever be. These tastes, this texture, this amazing warmth and connectedness. He thrust and twisted his fingers more vigorously in Greg's hole, while his tongue explored the outside of his cock. He briefly took Greg's penis fully into his mouth and sucked like a straw, hunting for more fluids.

Greg let out a series of breathy whimpers that told Mycroft his prey was close to succumbing. Beneath his chin, Greg's balls tightened up into a hard bundle at the base of his cock. But it was far too soon. Mycroft didn't think Greg had multiple orgasms left in him. This one had to count.

Reluctantly he let the cock fall free, giving one last swipe of his tongue to the tip. He was delighted by Greg's louder, begging cry. _Don't stop, don't stop_ every inch of his body seemed to thrum out. Greg's pulse was fantastically fast. Mycroft could smell the thwarted need on Greg's skin, like perfume, so delicious.

Mycroft removed his fingers from Greg's hole, provoking a second, softer cry of loss. The emptiness lasted only for a moment. Mycroft repositioned himself, pushing Greg's knees up against his shoulders and then pressing in until his upturned buttocks warmed Mycroft's thighs. Using one hand to position himself, Mycroft glided forward, breaching Greg and then bottoming out, all with one slow thrust.

Greg accepted Mycroft's cock without resistance. His body was perfectly hot and smooth and slick and firm. It hugged him and held him, not too loose or too tight. The friction was absolutely perfect, stimulating Mycroft's entire length. He rocked forward and drew back.

Impatient, Greg try to buck up to meet him, to quicken the pace. Mycroft chuckled and slowed down. _No, no, my love. Your needs will be met on my schedule._

Greg's eyes latched on Mycroft's for a moment, understanding, before they drifted off and glazed over. For the moment he was too caught up in what he was feeling to bother with things like sight and sound. His entire being was concentrated on the fullness in his rectum and the rubbing pressure on his prostate.

Mycroft thrust again, slow and steady. He put a charitable hand down to Greg’s erection and deemed it far enough from the brink to risk stroking. He savoured the heat of it in his hand, the way the veins rubbed against the skin of his palm. Oh, very nice, very nice indeed. If only they could do this forever.

But then mid-thrust and utterly abruptly, his own willpower broke. Without willing it, he sped up his thrusts, making them harder, rougher. Greg whimpered, not entirely with pleasure. Mycroft pushed his own pleasure down the bond and Greg let out a sigh. He wouldn't feel any discomfort now, and any injury would be healed before he came down from this high.

With his free hand Mycroft grabbed the nearest ankle and lifted it to his shoulder. He turned his head, felt the scratchy texture of Greg's leg hair against his cheek briefly before his teeth found the large vein on side of the heel. Using his vampiric strength to hold the limb steady, He bit, his lower fangs sinking deeply through the callused underside of his heel, upper fangs making a hash of skin beneath the ankle bone. Blood welled into his mouth, fast. Mycroft's eyes closed with the overwhelming decadence of it. Flavour, smell, heat, the warmth of Greg inside him and next to him and around him.

Ah, yes. Yes. Ah! Choking, Mycroft lifted his head away for air and thrust harder. Their bond tightened impossibly. His hand raced over Greg's erection and he _felt_ Greg's cry of completion more than he heard it. Greg ejaculated over his own chest and stomach in long spurts.

Immediately after that, Mycroft's own orgasm was yanked from his body. Forced out – there was no holding it back. He came in wonderful waves, flooding into Greg. Filling him. His last thrusts grew sloppier. Grabbing his mate's foot one more time, he bit and drank his way to bliss through the last surges of pleasure.

Exhausted and satiated, he collapse on top of Greg, head against the heaving softness of his belly. Ejaculate, sticky and fragrant and wet smeared against his cheek. There was still a bit of vitality there, so he turned his head and lapped it, ingesting the last wisps of life energy before it evaporated uselessly into the aether.

“I'm done,” he said at last, giving the signal that Greg come back to himself.

He felt the belly harden under him a little. “That was probably the most decadent thing I've ever done,” Greg said, his voice a bit creaky. “Thanks.”

“It was lovely for me as well,” said Mycroft, reluctantly sitting up. He stared fondly down at Greg. Those straps did make him look utterly fetching. It was a pity they had to come off.

“Would you mind?” Greg said. The bond between them was still so tight that their thoughts were bleeding through to each other. “Not that I didn't enjoy being tied up, but I think I need a break.”

“Of course,” said Mycroft hastily. He began freeing Greg. The straps had left indentations in his flesh that far too quickly vanished under the influence of the blood. He rubbed his thumb over one as it filled and smoothed. By the time Mycroft removed the bags from Greg's hands there wasn't any evidence that he'd ever been tied up, much less continuously for over 36 hours. “Do you have any energy left? I did drain you very thoroughly.”

Greg sat up with a little effort. “I feel relaxed but not light headed. You fed me nearly as much as you drained me.” Greg rubbed his sticky chest. “I'll be fine. After a shower.”

Mycroft stood up. “Shower can wait, you should nap if you can. My blood can help you heal back your blood supply, but it won't manufacture vitality. You'll exhaust yourself if you move too fast. I'll go fetch the girls from their mother's. That'll give you a few hours without me looming over you.”

Greg nodded.

As Mycroft turned to the shower he heard Greg behind him. “Do you think they’ll be okay? Sherlock and John?”

Mycroft smiled. Greg had been listening earlier. What with the situation, he hadn’t been sure. “Absolutely.”

“Will _you_ be okay?” asked Greg. “You’ve devoted most of your life to your brother. Do you think you can stop looming over him, now that he has someone else watching out for him?”

Mycroft pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “I will endeavour to try,” he said. “He does hate it so when I do that. Most people do.”

Greg chuckled. “Yeah. Good thing I’m not most people. I don’t mind at all.”

“And _that’s_ a good thing, indeed,” said Mycroft, smiling down indulgently, and giving Greg’s leg a soft pet. “Because looming is what I do best. I don't think I'll ever be able to stop watching you.”

Greg laughed. “And thank God for that, or we’d both be dead.” He grew sober. “ I never thanked you,” he said. “For rescuing me.”

Mycroft smiled tenderly. “It was my pleasure. My honour.”

“And I am sorry I put you in that position.” Greg's voice was softer. “I do honestly promise to remember I'm not a vampire in the future. I won't let my need for glory get in the way of good sense.”

Mycroft leaned over and kissed him. “That is really all that I could ask.”

“Forgiveness?” Greg asked.

“Forgiven.” 

– The end.


End file.
